


Honey Propolis

by Sambomaster, slexenskee (Sambomaster)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Harry Potter, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mpreg, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This was supposed to be, but i fucked that up, so here's a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-01-23 09:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 62,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18546577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/Sambomaster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/slexenskee
Summary: The highland fae have been hunted to near extinction by wizards who wish to maliciously use them for their various magical properties. Most coveted of all is their ‘propolis’, said to be the closest thing to immortality. Despite his best intentions, the Dark Lord is no exception.(This is basically 60k+ of Voldemort being an emotionally stunted sociopath desperately trying to make Harry happy and failing at it a lot. BUT HE TRIES OKAY)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am a failure. I tried to write non-con porn and this is what came out; basically no porn, some non-con but not the hentai levels I was aiming for, and a metric fuck ton of feelings. 
> 
> TBH I've had this story written for years but hadn't planned on posting this because it's really just my own self indulgence, plain and simple. Don't take it too seriously; from a literary perspective it’s a bit of an embarrassment, but whatever it was exactly the sappy romance I was looking for. 
> 
> MORE TAGS AT THE END!! They will spoil the story (or this chapter mostly) but if you think they might apply I would go head and read them. I don't think this is a dark fic, but the premise is extremely dark. And it's pretty dark at least for the first scene

 

 

The first thing the Dark Lord thinks when he lays eyes on the boy is;  _ he looks beautiful. _

 

The second is;  _ he looks very cold.  _

 

Well of course he would be, he’s naked on a metal table in the center of the room, and it’s not exactly warm in here. But all this just serves to remind him of where he is right now; what he’s going to do. 

 

He expected the place to look as dilapidated and uncared for as all the other stores in Knockturn Alley; some kind of back-room establishment skirting the law and keeping a low profile, decrepit and moldy. In hindsight that was ridiculous; they must make millions off operations like these. The entrance was a single wooden door off the side of an alley, but the interior was clean to the point of sterile, and the reception room full of handsome leather chairs and even a Veela attendant offering tea as she confirmed his booking appointment. Everything about the place seemed to confirm its goods were of high quality. From the waiting room alone it looked like a tailor off Saville row, he could have believed it even, if the young attendant hadn't been wearing a collar, and hadn't politely informed him she was also for sale. Perhaps if he was who he said he was, a wealthy aristocrat looking for a pretty and valuable plaything, he would have taken her up on that. As it is he merely coldly turns her down. 

 

In reality these sort of operations repulsed him. In fact as the Dark Lord he has vowed to eradicate magical creature trafficking and restore equal civil rights to all magical creatures. It disgusted him to even have to be here, doing this, but it was a necessary evil.

 

And this place  _ was  _ evil. This, coming from him— not a morally scrupulous man by any means. Their goods are highly sought after magical creatures that people would pay obscene amounts of money to get their hands on, himself being no exception. But as soon as he was led into a backroom to inspect the merchandise he had inquired about, he knew this creature in front of him would be worth every sickle and knut— immortality, after all, was priceless. And exceptionally hard to find. 

 

“You’re certain he’s the right creature.” He demands of the owner and broker of this illegal operation, a one Mr. Whetherwood, who is standing right next to him with an eager expression. The glint in his eyes turns flinty at his words.

 

“Yes, as I told you in our correspondence. I am absolutely certain. He’s not the first of his kind we’ve handled.” The man sniffs, briskly. 

 

“Forgive me, I meant no offense.” Voldemort replies suavely, in response to the man's affronted posture. “I'm merely surprised. They are exceedingly rare after all. In fact I had been told they were extinct.”

 

Fortunately this is enough to smooth the man's ruffled feathers. “Yes, yes,  they are quite rare. Even an established global operation like ours has only seen these creatures a handful of times.” 

 

The Dark Lord inclines his head. “It is most impressive that you've found one, then.”

 

“Ah, you're lucky you called when you did!” The man laughs. “He's barely been here two weeks. Already offers have been flooding in from all corners of the world, but smuggling him out of the country to ship him to another is expensive and risky. The bidding war has gotten quite intense, but between you and me if you were to put in an offer you'd be likely to win it.” He winks at him with a sly grin. “Selling him off domestically would be far more preferable.”

 

“A bidding war so soon?” The Dark Lord raises a vaguely disinterested brow.

 

“We have thousands of interested parties such as yourself who ask us to inform them whenever we have a fae in stock. And this one in particular… he is by far the most exceptional specimen I've ever seen. The others we’ve managed to get our hands on were much older and already… damaged goods, you could say.” He gives a vague wave to the fae on the table. “But this one is as pure and ripe as it gets. Young and fertile, that’s for sure. Completely untouched.”

 

Voldemort wants to point out they are talking about a person, not a piece of fruit, but ultimately decides the attempt would be pointless. Not only did he risk the chance of agitating the curator, he may also blow his own cover. 

 

“Untouched,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Is that of any significance?”

 

He asks because, unfortunately, he genuinely does not know. He knows very little about the elusive highland fairy; they are so close to extinction they are wildly considered a myth, so separating the fact from fiction was a difficult endeavor when attempting to gather information from contemporary sources. The many species of fae were widely prolific around western Europe and central Eurasia up until the medieval period, where they were then hunted and captured to be used as concubines or potions ingredients. 

 

It is a sad tale that has played out endlessly in the history of the Magical world. Incredible creatures with unique powers are all but wiped out by the inequities and tyranny of selfish wizards— the fae; the veela; the water nymph. And why? Because of the greed of humanity. Because of people like the man in front of him, who poach and capture these creatures to sell to the highest bidder. And because of people like himself, who are more than willing to pay the steep price and throw away their own morality for the chance to own something so precious. 

 

He wishes he could say that he was different. That the creature in front of him didn’t entice him at all; that he wasn’t affected by the magnetic sexual pull that could only signify a creature in heat. But alas, he cannot. He was but a man, after all, and as mythology loves to point out— what could a mere man do against the pulling enthrallment of the fae? 

 

“Ah, yes, well, previous buyers have stated that the product is more potent if the creature remains untouched.” The man pauses. “Not that the difference is all that significant— whether you choose to use the boy or not would be entirely up to you. It’s a matter of preference really; in fact, some say they even prefer the taste of mated fae.”

 

Again, he would like to point out they are speaking of a boy, not a piece of steak. And yet, to people like broker Whetherwood, they are no more than parts for sale. This young fae is only as good as his product. There are many different parts of fairies that are in high demand for various reasons, but none are as coveted as their sexual lubrication secreted during intercourse. Often called ‘honey’ or ‘propolis’ on the black market, just one vial goes for hundreds of galleons and can heal every kind of wound or sickness instantaneously. It can even save people on the brink of death. It’s rejuvenation properties are known the world over, and are so powerful that, theoretically, if taken with some level of frequency can even grant immortality. 

 

It’s not the true immortality he’s searching for, but it’s enough to extend his life and his health for a period long enough for him to explore other avenues for a more permanent solution. As of now, he finds his options lacking. He does not want to ruin his soul with a horcrux, nor does he want to ruin his mind with the Elixer of Life. Turning himself into a creature is an extreme last resort, and even then the available creatures to turn into have too many glaring weaknesses, and don’t offer true immortality, merely a long extension of life. 

 

“As long as the properties of the product remain the same, it matters not to me.” He replies, shaking away his thoughts. 

 

“Perhaps not to you,” the man says shrewdly. “But as I said a young virgin like this one has a higher market value than a deflowered one.” 

 

“I’ll match the highest bidder and then some. The cost is insignificant to me.” He reassures him, coldly, watching the man’s greedy eyes all but light up. 

 

“Ah, well you have a good eye, sir. This one is young and healthy; he should last you a long time.”

 

“Is that to infer they don’t normally last very long?” He asks, carefully. He was certain they were immortal. They were closely related to the long-since extinct elves, after all, who were the only true immortal creature to ever walk the earth.  

 

The man gives a grand sigh. “It’s unfortunate, but no, they do not. Despite their immortality they’re highly susceptible to silly things like ‘emotional distress’. I’ve heard stories of masters losing their fae over things like depression and anxiety. They’re frail little things.” He shakes his head. “This is why it’s imperative that you feed him his potion everyday. Not only will it keep him aroused, it also acts as a destressor. The quality and quantity of the propolis nectar he produces is also affected by his mood, hence the importance of keeping his mood stable.”

 

His gaze flickers to the boy on the table. His cheeks are flushed, despite the fact he’s shivering;  a sure sign of some sort of drug influence. He appears to be well enough, a little bit on the thinner side, but ultimately in good health. Voldemort can’t imagine that constantly being forced into heats would be good for him, though. 

 

“I’ll be sure to keep that under advisement.” The dark lord returns, features giving away nothing of his internal musings. “What can you tell me about his temperament?”

 

“Well, he certainly won’t give you much trouble. He’s a docile one. Doesn’t talk— think he might be mute, or he might never have learned how. Not sure how much he understands of language either. The team who caught him found him out in the wilds, so it wouldn’t be surprising if he was illiterate and uneducated. Most creatures are.” 

 

Voldemort considers this thoughtfully. “I see,” he answers, inscrutably. 

 

The man grins wildly at him. “So, I take it you have some interested in purchasing him?”

 

“I do, yes.” 

 

“Excellent! Would you like to sample him first? Just to assure you of the quality; I wouldn’t want you to think I’m overselling you.” The man offers in such a genuine and jovial tone that if Voldemort wasn’t sure of it earlier, he was certainly sure of it now: this man thought no more of these creatures than he would cattle or fresh produce for sale. It wasn’t even as if he was treating them intentionally cruelly; he sincerely didn’t seem to realize these were sentient creatures not unlike himself. 

 

“That’s not necessary.” The dark lord says, stiffly. He turns a narrow look towards the broker. “I believe I’ve already made up my mind.”

 

“Oh! Is that so? You’ll take him, then?” The man looks positively delighted. That’s because, more than likely, he was going to make a small fortune off of this one sale.

 

“Yes. And I am in a bit of a hurry, so if we could move on to the payment process, I would greatly appreciate it.”

 

“About the price— 

 

“Whatever his current market rate is, I’ll double it.” The Dark Lord interrupts him swiftly. 

 

The man’s jaw all but drops. He’s quick to recompose himself though, looking as if he can’t believe his luck. 

 

“Wonderful! Wonderful indeed!” He cries, looking around with a flustered expression, “Right, yes. I deeply apologize for taking up so much of your time. Uh, just let me settle all the paperwork and get his documents in order…”

 

He scurries out of the room, leaving the Dark Lord alone with his newly purchased charge. He feels as if he simultaneously doesn’t even want to look at him, but at the same time wants nothing more than to be able to run his hands all over that pearl-like smooth skin, and make good on the man’s offer to taste just how sweet his nectar is for himself. 

 

Very soon he’ll have plenty of opportunities to do just that, preferably not in some steely examination room in the back of a windowless building full of illegal magical creatures. He finds his gaze unwillingly returning to the creature he has spent months, years— most of his  _ life _ searching for. 

 

He’s a sorry sight to see, honestly. Small and shivering and shackled to the low table in the center of the room, on his hands and knees. 

 

The door opens again, and Mr. Whetherwood ushers him outside to sign some documents. The man swears they are all of the utmost confidentiality, and are kept hidden under fidelity charm, but he is not concerned, as he is already one step ahead of him. He signs the name,  _ Jameson Stonewall,  _ and the magic of the contract accepts it as if it is a real, binding signature. Afterwards he hands over the agreed upon amount of galleons— double what the boy was priced at. That was a staggering sum— but not surprising given the rarity of the creature in question— and after doubling it the amount is just plain obscene. However the broker is probably right, a fine specimen like that could go for well beyond the hundred thousand galleons he just paid. More than likely though the man was trying to sell him off as quickly as possible, for as he had stated earlier a creature of such rarity was also a great liability. 

 

Afterwards he is led back into the room, and given a box full of potion vials (and instructions on how to brew them), a leash, and a collar, and nothing else. 

 

Whetherwood unchains the boy from the table, outfits him with the new collar and attaches it to the leash, which he then holds out to Voldemort. The Dark Lord takes it gingerly, as one might a dirtied sock. It is only when the man leaves him to it that he realizes he’s meant to walk out with him like this. 

 

Instead he takes the leash and collar off, throws his cloak over the boy, and carries him out in his arms. It’s far less conspicuous than walking out with a naked boy on a leash. The boy is so small he is near weightless, and the cloak all but buries him. Only a small slip of his face is visible from beneath the heavy cloth; his cheeks are red and his brow is covered in cold sweat, his eyes are half-lidded and hazy. 

 

Not for the first time since Voldemort laid eyes on the boy he wonders if he should have waited until he managed to track down an older fairy. Ultimately he dismisses the thought as fanciful; it was a miracle in and of itself that he even managed to find this one. It took all of the Lestrange’s underworld contacts and more than a couple bribes to even get wind of this one being shipped out from a magical creature broker in Knockturn Alley for South Africa. Apparently this boy was captured somewhere in the northern UK; Voldemort wouldn’t be surprised to hear he was holding the last and only fae on the entire British Isles. This of course just makes him all the more precious, and makes Voldemort all the more determined not to lose him. 

 

As soon as he steps out of the store he turns sharply down an alleyway, and once sufficiently far enough from the street apparates away. 

 

&&

1.

 

Harry wasn’t sure what he was expecting once he arrived in the place he supposed was going to be his home for the rest of his life. 

 

He didn’t even know what a home really was. Most of his earliest memories were of him and his Mum running away from poachers trying to hunt them down to sell them off. It was a time he hated to think about, even more so than his time in captivity. 

 

All he can really remember is how hard his Mum tried to make him feel safe, even as they were always,  _ always _ running, moving from place to place without ever staying long enough for anyone to remember their faces. They could never stay very long in one place, and tended to avoid settlements, towns, and humans in general. It was always a harrowing experience whenever they had to chance an excursion into town; was this the day someone recognized the shape of their jewel-toned eyes, the glamours surrounding their features, their inhuman voices, their uncanny grace? Unfortunately, they had always been running on borrowed time. 

 

And his time in captivity… Harry shivers, and pushes all those thoughts away. Thinking of the past never seemed to do him any good, even though thinking of the future never did him any good either. 

 

For now he just decided to look around what he thinks is supposed to be his room. 

 

His first thought is one of pure bewilderment.

 

This can’t just be for him, can it? The bedroom is a large open space with high windows besotted with velvety curtains, a desk, a vanity, a few handsome wingback chairs surrounding a coffee table, and an absurdly large four poster bed with a canopy that matched the curtains. One ornate door led to what he assumed was a dressing room, with a gilded chaise lounge and endless drawers and closets. This led to an even more ornate bathroom, done up in the most beautiful marble he’d ever seen in his life. This too was quite spacious, with a shower stall and a long sink with multiple faucets and a couple steps leading up to a platform with a circular bathtub so large it seemed more like a small pool carved into it. The other door led into some kind of sitting room parlor, sharing the same tall arched windows and plush carpet as the bedroom.

 

Harry walked around the rooms in something akin to wonder. They were so big! And for what reason? They certainly couldn’t be all for him— he was so small!

 

He was used to either living in a cage or living on the run. He didn’t know what to do with himself in a space as large and luxurious as this. 

 

He doesn’t even really remember how he got here. 

 

He remembers changing hands multiple times until eventually ending up in the care of one broker Whetherwood. Honestly the man was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. He might have treated him as livestock, but that was much better than being treated as a sex object. Just the thought of how those other people touched him had him shivering in disgust. His mother had been right; humans were nothing but selfish, greedy and evil. They ruined everything they touched.

 

_ “But not your father,” _ she would say, after her anger had left her.  _ “He was truly a king among men. I couldn’t help but fall in love with him.”  _

 

But Harry could hardly remember Lily Potter, let alone James Potter. The man had died to save them when he was very young— too young to really remember much about him. He supposed he would simply have to take his mother’s word for it. 

 

Harry sinks into a plush couch in front of the fireplace, gazing sightlessly at the unlit logs. He hasn’t felt this melancholy in a long time. 

 

He blinks, sits up straighter, and then blinks again.

 

This is the most he’s felt in a long, long time. 

 

His hands spring up to his neck, where he feels nothing but bare skin. 

 

The collar… it’s gone.

 

He runs his fingers up and down from his ears to his collarbones, as if he expects it to magic into existence suddenly. He even gets up to examine himself in the mirror. Nothing. 

 

Harry frowns at his own reflection, confused. 

 

That man… the one who bought him… did he do this on purpose? Or was it merely on accident? Surely he knew that the collar was the only thing keeping Harry from using the extent of his vast magical powers. Fairies were well known for their impressive magical strength, in that regard they were the strongest of all magical creatures. Without his collar to suppress his magic Harry could easily rip through the wards surrounding this house and apparate anywhere of his choosing. 

 

For a long moment, Harry stares at himself and debates it. 

 

Then he considers everything that’s happened thus far. 

 

He couldn’t remember much of the man who had purchased him, as he had been drugged at the time and sluggish with the collar suppressing his magic and most of his energy. His awareness of the world around him was always hazy at best when it was on. He vaguely remembers the man covering him with a cloak and lifting him off the table, but things get dark after that. The next thing Harry remembers with any real clarity is waking up here, in this room. Immediately upon awakening a house elf appeared in his room and introduced itself as Foo, an elf in service of the mighty Dark Lord. This ‘Dark Lord’ was the one who purchased him, and was the one who owned the manor he was currently residing in. 

 

The elf showed Harry around his rooms, being sure to mention that the grand double doors leading out of his chambers were locked and he was not to leave his rooms under any circumstances. Foo was also under orders to serve him breakfast, and afterwards the elf even suggested that, ‘ _ Perhaps the young master would like to take a bath as well. Shall I run the water for you? _ ’ It had taken Harry a long moment to realize the elf had been referring to  _ him _ when he said young master, and he was so stunned he just nodded. 

 

The bath ended up being a great idea, and after finding a bathrobe to wear Harry wandered out of his dressing room to find breakfast already laid out for him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a breakfast like this. On the rare occasions he and his mother stayed overnight at an inn, the meals were always rather modest. He’d never seen so much food in his life. In the end he stuck to fruit and a few pieces of toast. 

 

After finishing breakfast he explored his rooms a bit more, flipped through a couple of the books occupying the shelves in the sitting room, wandered around the rooms a few more times, and now he was here, standing in front of a tall mirror, staring at his reflection and wondering why he wasn’t leaving. 

 

_ Where would I even go?  _ Harry thinks, glumly. His mother was dead— killed in the ensuing skirmish that ultimately led to his capture. It’s not as if he knew anyone else; it’s not as if he knew of anywhere else to go, either. He and his mother moved around so often he couldn’t really remember any particular location he would think to return to.

 

Harry looks around the room again.

 

In all honesty, he thinks his best course of action might just be to stay. At least until he comes up with a better idea.

 

Harry has spent his whole life struggling to survive, so he knows what it’s like to live every day not knowing if tomorrow he’ll have a place to sleep and food to eat. From what he can tell from this morning, he has a luxurious place to stay, as much food to eat as he could ever want, and a big bath with warm water. Quite frankly, Harry might just stick around just for the idea of constant on demand access to running hot water. 

 

Of course, all these luxuries came with a price. And the idea of selling his body for it… Harry grimaces and shakes his head rapidly. 

 

That was going to happen regardless. If this Dark Lord hadn’t bought him, someone else would have, or he would have been stuck with the creature broker, who was already using Harry to produce nectar anyway. At least this way he got something in return; a place to stay with all the comforts he could ever ask for. And if he tried to escape now, more than likely he’d just end up living his life on the run all over again. Inevitably he’d get caught again, and the odds of him being bought by someone who actually cared about his general wellbeing were rather slim. He knew how magical creature were treated by wizards, even ones as rare as himself. Locked up in cages and windowless rooms all their lives, kept chained to the walls so they couldn’t escape. Beaten, raped and abused, and then tossed aside once their usefulness expired. 

 

Harry turns away from the mirror, suddenly unable to look at himself any longer. 

 

There had been a veela girl in the cage next to him, at the broker’s. They were locked behind bars, but at least the cages all had beds and toiletries. The girl couldn’t have been any older than him, but already she had been tossed around by abusive masters before ultimately ending up being returned to Whetherwood by her most recent one; apparently she was too old, too used, and not his type. She said Whetherwood’s had been a luxury, that it was the nicest place she’d ever been. Harry could barely believe it. Sure, it was a big step better than the shack Harry’s captors had kept him in for the first few months while they figured out how to sell him off, but it was still a  _ cage.  _ They were still being kept locked up like animals. She said it was better to be treated as an animal, then to be treated as trash. Harry couldn’t help but think on her words now. 

 

His mother had trained Harry to be smart, clever, quick on his feet and most of all, realistic. Being a fae herself she knew there would come a day where they would no longer be able to run, and would be separated, either by death or by the hands of greedy wizards, so she did her best to prepare Harry for that reality.

 

_ Better to be locked up in a mansion than locked up in a cage in a basement,  _ Harry thinks darkly. 

 

Suddenly he hears the doors to his chambers open. Harry stiffens in surprise, feeling unprepared. He’d thought he’d had more time. 

 

Well, there was no real point in considering escaping now. The footsteps were coming closer, and soon enough, a human appeared in the doorway to his bedroom.

 

Harry didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

 

He is very tall, Harry notices first. Even for fae Harry was smaller than usual, but even he could tell that this wizard was quite tall, even for human standards. He was also very handsome, Harry had to admit, with broad shoulders, the face of a fairytale prince charming, and curiously red eyes. He was dressed in a crisp white button down and a pair of dark slacks, his outer robes slung over one arm. He looked… normal. Not at all like the kind of person who would purchase a trafficked magical creature to use for his own purposes. Then again, how was Harry to know?

 

“I see you are awake,” the man observes, gleaming crimson eyes giving a cursory sweep over Harry’s body. 

 

He’s not sure what to make of that. He’s also not sure how to respond, so he doesn’t.

 

“Ah, that’s right, the broker mentioned you were mute,” he remarks, almost conversationally. “Well, can you understand me, at the very least?”

 

Harry hesitates, before giving the man a brief nod. 

 

“Excellent.” He says, as he leans against the doorframe. “And it seems Foo has helped you get acclimated to your new quarters; I hope they are to your liking.”

 

Harry just blinks at him; even if he did want to talk, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t even know what to say to this man. It was probably for the best that he didn’t seem to be looking for any answers. 

 

The wizard is quiet then, staring at Harry. Harry glances up to meet his gaze, but quickly finds he has to look away from the intensity in those eyes. 

 

He stares at Harry for an uncomfortably long time, before he pushes away from the door jam and makes his way towards the breakfast table, settling himself in one of the wingback chairs. “Well I suppose now is as good a time as any to discuss some— ground rules, shall we say?” He crosses one leg over the other, and then beckons Harry closer with a wave of his hand. “Come, sit. There’s no need to just stand there.”

 

&&

 

The fairy looks at him with those luminous, inhumanly bright eyes, before eventually doing as he’s told and taking the seat across from him. Even this simple movement he manages to make look elegant and graceful. It seems that delicate grace is something that just comes naturally to all fae. 

 

It’s unfortunate that the creature is mute, but Voldemort is relieved to see that he seems to understand everything around him well enough. Still, it would have been nice to hear the mystical voice of the Fae - apparently a sound so beautiful it was the inspiration for the flute - in person. But he supposed he should be grateful the fairy is at least lucid and aware of his surroundings. 

 

He looks far healthier this morning than he had been when Voldemort had arrived with him yesterday afternoon. Back then, his face had been flushed as if in fever, and his skin was dull and almost grey. Whetherwood had mentioned the fae’s physical fragility, so Voldemort was enraged to find the man hadn’t bothered to take his own advice, and take more heed with the boy’s constitution. It was clear that whatever potion he’d been given to constantly induce his heats wasn’t very good for him; Voldemort decided he would refrain from using it, at least at first. He wanted to see if he could… get what he wanted without having to use it. If that proved impossible, he supposed he would have to find a way to modify it somehow to make it less taxing on the boy’s health. At any rate his intuition seemed to be correct, for the boy was now sporting a healthy glow on that dewy, honey-like skin. (The irony of his own observation was not lost upon him.) His eyes had turned a vibrant shade of viridian, where earlier they had been glassy and dull. All in all a good night’s rest, a bath and a balanced breakfast seemed to do the boy a world of good— hopefully that would continue. 

 

The Dark Lord realizes he’s been staring once again, and clears his throat. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain why you’re here,” he begins, as tactfully as possible. The boy stiffens in the seat next to him, but otherwise has no response. Vocally, anyway. But he certainly has a reaction. His lips thin into a fine line as his shoulders grow stiff, his hands clenched in his lap. 

 

Given the fairy’s history and the nature of what Voldemort is demanding, it’s really no surprise he would react like this.

 

The wizard sighs. “I do not want to make this any more difficult than it needs to be, for either of us,” he says. “So here is my proposition; you are free to do what you want, as long as you stay within the confines of the manor grounds and do not attempt to go into areas you are not allowed access to. You will know whether you are allowed to go into a room if the door opens for you. My only stipulation is that you must be ready for me here in this room, by eight o’clock every night.” 

 

When he glances up at the boy, he is sitting very still, a palpable anxiety radiating off him in waves. By Merlin this is more difficult than he had anticipated. “I will only need ten minutes of your time at most.” Voldemort assures him. “After that you’re free to do what you like.”

 

The boy is unresponsive. Well, it’s not as if he really has a choice either way, so perhaps it’s useless to expect any kind of confirmation from the fairy. 

 

But surprisingly, after a brief moment of hesitation the boy nods his acquiescence. 

 

The only show of surprise that manages to break through his impassivity is a slow blink of his eyes. “Very well then, it appears we are in agreement. I shall see you tonight.” 

 

&&

 

Despite the many matters he must take care of today, the boy is never far from his thoughts. 

 

After returning to the manor briefly to ensure the boy’s continuing good health, he again left for the Ministry, ironing out the paperwork he’d missed from his afternoon off the day before. He also instructed Lucius to send an anonymous tip to the Auror Department on a possible illegal magical creature trafficking deal going on in Knockturn. He doesn’t know what other creatures that broker had locked up in that building, but he imagines they’ll find all sorts of rare and exotic creatures. And despite current actions proving otherwise, Voldemort really does intend to make good on his promise to end magical creature enslavement, and restore their basic human rights. 

 

The fae’s existence will have to be kept tightly underwraps, lest he lose great public approval. It’s not as if Wizarding Britain is a democracy or anything, but all the same even for an authoritative dictator like himself keeping the population’s approval high makes everything run smoother. Right now, despite the war and the overhaul he’s made to the Ministry the general public approves of his changes. Things were going well; of course, now that he had won the war he had come to realize just how much time he would really need if he intended to actually see these changes through to fruition. 

 

Most of the population already thought of him as some kind of immortal god. Rumors were endless; some even speculated he was a creature himself, which was why he was so adamant on restoring magical creature rights. He’d heard plenty of people call him the devil incarnate, but more and more wizards and witches had started to see him as some kind of divine ruler. These were all completely untrue, of course. He was not a creature, he was not god, and he was not immortal. 

 

He intended to fix that last one very soon though. 

 

He’d taken the first step, which was a good start. Securing a fae and a steady supply of  _ propolis  _ for the foreseeable future would at least give him longevity and good health for the time being. He simply didn’t have the time at present to be dedicating as much research onto the subject as he would like; unsurprisingly ruling an entire country didn’t leave much space for leisure or personal pursuits. Hence, the necessity of the fairy.

 

Voldemort almost scowled. His thoughts had come full circle, again.

 

He chalked it up to the novelty of having such a rare and impressive creature in his grasp. Of course he would find it difficult  _ not  _ to think about it. Above all else he respected the incredible magics and powers magical creatures had access to, the fae especially. He had been interested in the high elves for as long as he could remember. Finally getting to see one of their few remaining descendents was an honor indeed. And the boy did not disappoint. He was as beautiful as the books had said he would be. He was a creature of pureness, light and magic, and just as the books in the Hogwarts library had foretold his skin seemed to all but glow in the sun as if he was truly made of light. After studying him further Voldemort could see many of the telltale characteristics of the highland fae; the creamy snow-white skin that almost acted as camouflage in their naturally snowy, mountainous environment; jewel-like eyes of intense color; slightly pointed ears; a small, hollow-boned build made for flight— he wondered if the rumors of wings were true. Other fae such as the woodland fae or the marsh fae took after their distant cousins the pixies; they had thin, translucent, butterfly like wings with patterns unique depending on each fae. But the highland fae was said to have wings far more like a bird’s— supposedly, they were the inspiration for the mythological ‘angel’ found in Muggle religions. 

 

However, no one in recent times had ever seen a highland fae’s wings to verify the claim, mainly due to the fact no one in recent times had ever seen a highland fae, period. That and wings seemed to have some kind of sacred and intimate meaning in fae culture, he had deduced, so that was no surprise. He doubted he would ever have a chance to confirm their existence either, even owning one as he did. 

 

He assumed whatever their significance was, it was one based on trust and positive relational bonds. And he couldn’t get a good enough read on his own fae to see where he really stood with the boy, but he could imagine the fairy did not have a very high opinion on humans in general after his experiences thus far. 

 

Honestly the fairy probably hated him, and the Dark Lord couldn’t even blame him for that. In many ways it pained him to have to keep such a majestic creature locked away in a gilded cage, but he was too selfish a man to ever think of letting him go. 

 

&&

 

The Dark Lord briefly leaves Britain on his lunch break, telling his secretary to only contact him if absolutely necessary. When he arrives at the seashore, the creature he is looking for is already there. He watches her run her hands through her silken hair in a maddeningly mesmerizing gesture. The gold strands look like little rivulets of sunshine against the ocean spray. 

 

After a long beat in which she merely continues to comb her hair, the Dark Lord finally decides he does not want to play this game any longer than necessary. 

 

“I can see you are mad at me,” he begins without preamble. “But it is an unfortunate reality that I needed the boy for my own purposes.”

 

Finally, the mermaid’s eyes slide towards him, large and seafoam green in the wintry sun. “Why do you think I am mad at you?” She returns, as her fingers deftly wind through golden locks. 

 

Idly, he wonders why mermaids always seem so damn fixated on their hair. He brushes the thought away. “Why wouldn’t you be?” He points out. 

 

To magical creatures, the Dark Lord is supposed to be the herald of their freedom and independence. And yet here he is, doing the exact opposite. 

 

“If I hadn’t wanted this to happen, I would not have told you of his location,” the mermaid says simply. 

 

Voldemort blinks. Atargatis turns to him with a small, simple smile. “And how is he?”

 

The man recovers from his shock quickly. “He is well,” he replies. “He seems to be recovering quickly. Far better than yesterday.”

 

“Good,” she says, her voice capricious. “Make sure to take good care of him.”

 

Voldemort isn’t sure what to think about that. Is this approval, then? Surely she realizes he’s not that altruistic— he didn’t do this just to ‘save’ the boy. 

 

The seas off Ascalon are a brilliant, shimmering blue hue. The mediterranean sun warms the rocks upon the seashore with golden affection, and casts the mermaid in a lovely light. He remembers he met this particular mermaid on a day not unlike this one, many years ago. During his travels in his youth she rescued him from the sea, as mermaids are oft to do, and seemed amenable to humor him when he awoke and began to bombard her with questions. Mermaids were another wondrous magical creature with exquisite powers that no mere wizard could ever dream to have; the goddesses of the sea, they could read the ocean’s moods and even change them. Fortunately they— for some unfathomable reason— seemed fond of humans, and often changed the tides to favorable conditions for boats passing by. They also could see the future; one trait in particular that Voldemort had capitalized on. 

 

Artagatis never seemed all that concerned with the consequences of sharing future events with him. For some unfathomable reason she was not only fond of humans, but fond of him. He could always find her on her favorite rock, here on the shores of Ascalon, twining her fingers through her luscious golden hair. 

 

He wonders why she had told him of the fae being held in Knockturn alley. He hadn’t even prompted her for the information; she had merely mentioned, completely offhand, that perhaps he should have one of his subordinates look at their mail today. And lo and behold, Rabastan had been contacted by one of his bounty hunters, revealing rumors of a captured fae on the British Isles. She did things like this often, tossing him bits of seemingly useless information that ultimately served to better him somehow. He can’t imagine she doesn’t know who he is— the feared Dark Lord of Britain, the man who single-handedly tore down the Ministry and implemented his own regime— and yet she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. At first, he had assumed Atargatis merely overlooked his many moral failures in the face of his staunch advocacy for creature rights. Now he had to wonder though. He couldn’t call himself an advocate for creature rights any longer, not when he was doing the very thing he condemned other humans to death for. 

 

“Why did you tell me about him?” He asks cautiously, as the mermaid turns back to the sea.

 

Predictably, she ignores his question. Mermaids are such mercurial creatures, he thinks, exasperated; they only ever answer when they feel like it. Truly he should be used to this by now. “I’d like to meet him someday,” she comments idly. “Not now, but one day. Would you bring him to me?”

 

He’s far too used to this behavior to be annoyed. Instead, he is merely resigned. “Yes.” He replies.

 

“Good.” She smiles at him again. It’s that half-smile, ephemeral and capricious— it makes him wonder if Mona Lisa had actually been a mermaid, for it bears too great a resemblance to the painting to be a coincidence. Who knows, with their long lives, perhaps it was this very mermaid who inspired the painting to begin with. “I believe you should return now— there is a fire in your office.”

 

He blinks, before cursing under his breath. By Merlin he can’t leave for more than an hour without something going wrong. 

 

&&

 

Even long after he left, Harry wasn’t sure what to think of this strange human man. 

 

_ It’s just ten minutes,  _ he thinks to himself.

 

Hundreds of minutes in a day, and this man only asks for ten of them. It’s not so terrible a price to pay, he consoles himself. 

 

Still, he is nervous and uneasy at the idea. He knew what humans wanted of him, of course, but up until now he had always been so far from lucid when they extracted his nectar from him, he was never in any state of mind to be self conscious over the whole act. Now though, he was under no potion or influences to speak of. 

 

He still didn’t understand why the man would do that.

 

Or why he would take off his collar. 

 

Harry was running himself in circles. He wouldn’t have any idea why the man had done those things unless he asked, and he had no intention of  _ ever  _ doing that. He had no interest in communicating with humans, ever. Let them believe he was mute and slow. It was better that way. 

 

Before long he had found himself pacing his room multiple times, thoughts turning over themselves in his head.  _ I could escape anytime.  _ He reminded himself, over and over again. He would think this, decide he was better off leaving, and vow to disappear into the mountains immediately. And then something would happen. He opened the wardrobe to find beautiful silken shirts and robes all perfectly tailored to his size; he stumbled upon the many interesting titles lining his book shelves; the house elves returned to serve an immense and mouth-watering lunch, the most delicious meal he’d ever had in his life; and finally, he remembered he was allowed to actually  _ leave  _ his rooms, and eventually he found his way to the gardens outside his window. 

 

They were just breathtaking. Harry thought he could live his entire life among the butterflies and the flowers and be perfectly content for the rest of his days. 

 

Did he really want to leave this place? 

 

This was the closest he’d ever been to relaxed his entire life. He was anxious, yes, but no longer on edge, fearing for his very existence at every given moment of the day. He could almost forget about the Dark Lord, when he had the manor and its grounds all to himself every day. The house elf had informed him that the Dark Lord left very early in the mornings and did not return until very late, leaving Harry with plenty of solitude. 

 

So every time he thought about leaving, he ended up finding more reasons to stay, and in the end once again came to the conclusion to just wait it out and see. 

 

By the time eight o’clock rolled around though. Harry was beginning to regret his decision.

 

His eyes kept darting to the clock, as the seconds seemed to sludge by. He had returned to his rooms, taken a bath to rid himself of all the pollen and petals no doubt all over him from his prior frolicking, ate supper, and then wondered what the Dark Lord had meant when he expected him to be ‘ready for him’. What exactly did that mean? What, did the man want Harry to strip naked and be on his hands and knees on the floor? The idea was unsettling, so he merely stayed in his bathrobe, and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what the man wanted, which more than likely was the main contribution to his current anxiety. Well, no. He knew what the man  _ wanted;  _ he just didn't know how he intended to get it. If he knew what to expect, this hopefully wouldn’t be so daunting. 

 

Finally the man arrives, just a few seconds shy of 8:05. Harry almost wants to berate him for being late, but he doesn’t think he could speak right now even if he wanted to. He is far too afraid. 

 

It must be obvious as well, for the man stares at him from across the room for some time, before eventually his expression turns vaguely exasperated. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he assures, in a way that does not reassure Harry at all. 

 

If anything, he holds himself a little tighter. 

 

The man observes his response with a sigh. “This is going to be difficult, isn’t it?” It seems more directed at himself than to Harry. 

 

He walks closer, until he is standing right in front of Harry. Harry observes him with a guarded look. 

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, softly. “I’m not sure what you’ve experienced from other humans so far, but I can assure you I have no intention of ever physically harming you, or intentionally causing you pain.” 

 

His words seem to have no effect on the boy whatsoever. The fairy’s expression is unyielding, and his eyes are hard and steely. 

 

He hesitates, just briefly. “I also would prefer not to have to force you into doing anything,” he admits. This finally garners him a reaction— the fae’s eyes widen for a split second, before narrowing suspiciously. “Although I  _ do  _ require your nectar and have every intention of getting it.” He decides he may as well be upfront and honest about it. It’s not as if they both don’t know this already. 

 

Voldemort watches him closely for a few more long, tense seconds. “I can see this does nothing to mollify you in the slightest.” He notes, drily. “Very well then. I suppose we don’t have to do this, at least for tonight.”

 

He turns around to leave the room, and is caught by complete surprise when a hand reaches out to grab his arm. 

 

Crimson eyes widen as he turns back around, to see the fairy has reached out to pull him back. 

 

He’s not looking at him, his gaze fixated on the floor. He shakes his head, tugging Voldemort closer. The Dark Lord blinks, unsure of how to read this. After what seems to be a long, painful moment of deliberation, the young fae scoots back upon the bed, until he can put his feet upon the surface. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at Voldemort at all, but it seems as much an invitation as Voldemort will ever get. 

 

He’s still quite clearly terrified.  _ He’s a brave one, _ the Dark Lord thinks, almost fondly, because despite his fear he seems to have realized that postponing this won’t make it any easier for either of them really, and it would be better to face it head on. 

 

He’s careful not to startle the creature as he slowly crawls onto the bed on top of him. The boy’s eyes briefly catch his own, wide and fearful, before he resolutely turns his gaze away again. He doesn’t protest as the Dark Lord gently pushes him flat on his back with a hand on his shoulder, but he keeps his head turned away. 

 

He’s just as slow and careful as he moves to untie the bow holding his robe together. It comes apart with a slight tug, and then he is once again treated to the sight of the fae’s sublime expanse of creamy skin, as the fabric falls apart and pools at his sides. He coaxes the robe off the boys shoulders, until finally all of his naked body is revealed. 

 

He’s even more beautiful up close. 

 

Voldemort  _ aches  _ to touch him, to run his hands and mouth all over the wonderful plains of smooth skin, to worship him as he so deserves; however he does not want to unnerve the boy any more than he already is. Still, he can’t help but run a reverent hand up and down his torso, as his eyes drink in the sight before him. 

 

He promised the boy ten minutes though, so unfortunately he doesn’t have the time to look his fill. If he did that, he’d probably be here all night. 

 

“Can you turn around for me?” He asks, voice low. 

 

The fae swallows audibly, his body tensing up again. It takes a second but he complies after a moment. Voldemort sits up a bit to give him room, and when he’s fully turned around he again can’t help but run his hands up and down his back. The wing bones, he notices, are especially prominent beneath his fingers. Do the wings grow from here? Or are they magicked into existence somehow? His scientific mind wants to pick apart this creature, but the rest of him wants to  _ ruin  _ him. 

 

Finally his eyes descend to his true prize. His gaze grows hungrier as his hands travel down to the round, supple flesh of his buttocks. His hands are wide enough to cover the full expanse of the boy’s hips, with his thumbs in perfect position to gently spread his cheeks open. He stretches open that puckered hole just enough to see the virgin pink of the boy’s entrance, so tantalizing and enthralling a sight the Dark Lord inches closer without even knowing it.  _ Some people even prefer the taste of mated fae.  _

 

Oh, he has a feeling he could easily be one of those people. 

 

He should go slower, if he’s being honest, but he finds his patience completely deserts him at the delicious sight, and he dives right in to lick a long stripe from the base of the boy’s cock all the way up to where his thumbs are holding his entrance slightly open. 

 

The boy makes a choked noise when Voldemort takes his first drink, but at this point he couldn’t stop even if he tried. 

 

He tastes like heaven. He tastes better, even. His nectar is far beyond any Voldemort has tasted before. He’s had to pay the obscene price for vials on the black market before he managed to get his hands on this boy, and while the flavor was distinct and pleasant it had never tasted like  _ this.  _

 

There’s something different, he thinks distantly, as he mouths against the boy’s entrance. The boy lets out a low mewl, twisting in his grip as if to get away, but his hands on his hips keep him well in place. It’s far too drastic a difference in taste to just be chalked up to the uniqueness of individual fae, but he can’t really think on it deeply because most of his thoughts have flown right out of his head. 

 

All he can think of is the heady honey taste on his tongue, and how much he wants more of it. 

 

—

 

Harry gives a squeak of surprise when he feels a tongue probing at him  _ down there _ , and all he can think is that it’s strange, it’s too strange. He finds himself instinctually trying to twist out of the man’s grip, but the hands on his hips hold him in place. His toes flex as the human’s tongue seems to lick even deeper inside him than he would have thought possible. Another strangled noise escapes him when the man’s thumbs press harder to stretch his entrance even wider. 

 

It’s not at all what he expected it to feel like. What he vaguely remembers from all his time in captivity was nothing like this. Fortunately the poachers who actually caught him knew he was worth a lot of money, but hadn’t known why, and had never done this to him. And the brokers he's been handed off to had drugged him to the point he could only hazily remember what they did to him, and had used a strange automatic device to pump it out of him. So he’s never had anyone do—  _ this _ , to him, or at least not when he was lucid enough to remember it, and it almost feels like too much. 

 

To his complete shock he finds himself growing wet even without a potion inducing any kind of arousal. He’s embarrassed, actually, especially when he can feel his passage start to moisten in a vaguely uncomfortable way, and the wet noises the man makes as he laps his tongue against him get louder and louder. He blushes incredibly when he starts to feel himself grow so wet that it starts to seep out of him, dripping onto the bedspread. Harry has to bite his own hand to keep himself from making any noise as the man’s tongue surges inside him again, this time with the hint of a thumb as well.

 

His body seems to grow hot and restless as the man continues to drink from him, his breath coming out in soft pants as something warm pools in his stomach. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and it only seems to grow the longer the man coaxes more nectar out of him. 

 

Before long he can’t contain his cries any longer, and his hands clench ineffectually into the sheets, twisting them in his hands as the man stabs his tongue inside him again and again, the obscene and immoral wet noises only growing louder and louder. 

 

He lets out a sharp cry of surprise when the man roughly inserts a finger inside him without warning, and the feeling of something so hard and unyielding inside him is enough to light up every nerve ending in his body. His breath comes out in a low, long moan as the man adds another finger as well as his tongue. 

 

He realizes what he’s doing with another wave of embarrassment and pure heat. His fingers rub lightly against his slick inner passage, gathering up all of the liquid he can before gently coaxing it out of his body. Harry lets out a whimper when he feels it all leak out of him, and feels the tongue that eagerly laps it all up quickly after. 

 

He feels so strange he thinks he might just pass out. His body is so feverish and restless he shakes with the pent up energy. 

 

The man thrusts his fingers in again, well past the first knuckle this time, and Harry arches his back in surprise as his eyes fly open and his mouth opens on another stilted cry. He clenches his teeth as he feels more wetness flood inside him, and this time his nipples harden and, to his surprise, so does his cock. He can feel the slickness all but drip out of him, wetness coating his inner thighs as they shake with the effort of holding him upright. 

 

The human is relentless; he thrusts his fingers in and out of Harry until Harry is all but leaking onto the bedspread, eagerly lapping up all the excess with his ruthless tongue. He has one hand concentrating on fucking Harry open wider and wider, and the other hand is an iron clasp against his upper thigh, spreading his legs as far as they can go. And his tongue— his  _ tongue. _ He spreads his fingers as wide as they can go, keeping Harry’s entrance nice and open for that slick appendage as it descends upon him insatiably. Harry gives a low whine as his inner passage clenches uselessly against the man’s fingers, feeling exposed and open and like he wants  _ more.  _ He’s horrified to even think it, but he wants more. He wants more than the man’s tongue and his fingers. He thinks— he thinks he wants his cock. He bites deeply into his lip as his mind unwillingly wanders that way, as he thinks about what it would feel like to be spread wide open on something so  _ big _ — he lets out another strangled noise as the very thought makes another flood of wetness seep out of him. 

 

Oh god, he doesn’t think he can take much more of this. The human’s fingers and tongue are driving him crazy, and he feels as if he’s about to collapse under the intensity of it all. He can’t handle any more— he can’t  _ think  _ about it any more. Because apparently if he lets his mind wander he’s going to end up begging the man to take his thick, glorious human cock and spread him open and fuck him into the mattress— 

 

The thought is so horrifying it’s enough to propel him into action. He kicks out against the man, managing to get loose of the bruising grip on his thigh and all but crawl away from him to freedom. 

 

Surprisingly the man doesn’t try to catch him. Actually, when Harry curls in on himself and attempts to catch his breath, he sees the man looking at him with an almost bereft expression. Harry doesn’t know what to make of it, so he ignores the human in favor of attending to himself. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm his frantically beating heart, and stop his body from shaking and feeling so strange and tingly. 

 

When he opens his eyes again the human is still watching him, but seems to have composed himself some. 

 

Harry closes his eyes and turns away, curling in on himself tighter. 

 

There is a long moment where neither of them say anything. 

 

“I apologize,” the human says, stiffly. He stands up to his full intimidating height, and from the corner of his eye Harry can see him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The reminder of just where that mouth was seconds ago is enough to make a furious blush stain his cheeks. “I got a bit… carried away.”

 

Harry doesn’t look at him. 

 

He sighs deeply. “It won’t happen again. That’s a promise.” He makes an aborted movement towards Harry, before he seems to think better of it and instead steps away. 

 

Harry listen to his footsteps as they drift farther and farther away. He doesn’t uncurl himself until after he hears the doors to his rooms shut, and even then, he has to stay where he is for a little while longer to calm his erratic heart and body. 

 

He blushes again when he rubs his thighs together and can still feel how slick and sticky they are— and further, how slick and sticky he still feels on the inside. It didn’t seem so bad when the man was all but finger fucking him, but now he just feels loose and a little uncomfortable. He supposes now is as good a time as any to have another shower, and he feels gross enough to warrant it. 

 

_ That was well beyond ten minutes _ , he thinks sourly as he steps into the shower stall. 

 

The man did apologize though, and admitted it was unintentional. 

 

But all the same, even if he stuck to his ten minutes, Harry wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to survive a repeat of that event. 

 

&&

###  2.

 

Predictably by the next day, Harry has once again talked himself out of leaving. Now that the event has had a few hours to sit in his mind, he is once again contemplating the realities of his escape. 

 

He awakes in a warm nest of pillows and a sea of soft white and grey linen, early morning sunshine filtering in behind gossamer curtains. At first, he doesn’t even remember where he is, and has to push down the frightened, instinctual urge to dive out of the bed and hide beneath it. His breathing evens out as he remembers where he is, and his fear for his life simmers into a different kind of fear. 

 

His arms wrap around himself as he pulls his knees up close to his chest and remembers last night.

 

That had been… a lot. 

 

But now that the milky light of morning has washed away the night, it all feels muted, as if it only happened in a dream. 

 

The incident doesn’t leave his mind, but he does manage to push it into the background as he goes about yet another day exploring this massive manor he’s found himself in. He decides to take the dark lord up on his offer and peruse through the endless hallways of the house; he wants to know  _ exactly  _ what he’s getting into here. Now that he knows what’s expected of him, he wants to see what he’s going to get in return. From just his rooms alone he has a feeling this place won’t disappoint. The main section has two wings that jut out behind it; Harry’s rooms are at the far end of the eastern wing, well removed from the large state rooms, tea rooms, drawing rooms and ballrooms that occupy the main part of the manor. He encounters quite a few doors that are locked; despite the fact he could easily use just a flick of his magic to unlock them, he refrains. 

 

The whole mansion is breathtaking— completely excessive, beyond extravagant, and just this side of garish, but still fantastic beyond words. Everything is plush and ornate, and clearly of value. And that’s to say nothing of the  _ food.  _ Harry has never enjoyed such splendor in his life. 

 

When he finally makes it out into the courtyard behind the front section of the manor, he can’t keep the delighted smile off his face. Every time he sees it, it brings a smile to his face. It’s just beautiful. The sunshine plays upon his face as a soft wind tousles his hair; there are birds chirping in the air and the sound of running water out in the distance, rustling leaves and the flutter of wings; the grand patio descends into a maze of gardens, and beyond them Harry can see an open pavillion surrounded by a small pond. 

 

Well, calling it a garden is a bit too flattering. There are rampant overgrown bushes and flower beds overtaken by weeds, but no real attempts at gardening to speak of. But it’s  _ nature _ , and Harry hadn’t realized how desperately he had missed it until he breathed in a lungful of crisp, spring air. To Harry, who had spent his whole life running and hiding in the wilds,  _ this  _ was home. 

 

He leans against the stone balustrade leading down from the veranda to the garden path, closing his eyes as he smiles into the sunshine. 

 

He feels so blissful, he misses the soft pop beside him.

 

“Young Master, would you care for afternoon tea?” 

 

Harry blinks out of his stupor, turning to look to his side where an unfamiliar house elf is looking up at him with an eager expression. Harry observes the small creature for a long moment; then he crouches low, until he is eye height with the elf. 

 

_ “Hello— what is your name?”  _ He asks carefully, in elvish. 

 

The elf’s ears perk up in pure shock at the use of the language, but its clear it can understand him. Of course it can, it’s an elf, after all. They share the same ancestor, the high elves, and the same mother tongue. The house elf line is not as direct, what with intermingling with gnomes and goblins at some point, but their language remained unchanged. 

 

_ “My name is Blue.”  _ The elf replies, hesitantly. 

 

Harry smiles gently.  _ “Well, it’s nice to meet you Blue. My name is Harry.”  _ He pauses thoughtfully.  _ “Did you name yourself, Blue?” _

 

Blue nods, still looking wary at the idea of speaking with Harry in elvish.  _ “Blue named herself, yes. Blue had a name from her old masters— nasty wizards— but the great Dark Lord told Blue to pick something else.” _

 

Harry pauses at the information. Interesting. 

 

His mother had told him all about their less fortunate distant relatives, the house elves. Enslaved by wizarding kind, wizards abuse their good nature and their enthusiasm and aptitude for helping others by locking them in unbreakable contracts of servitude. It was a story that acted as a warning for her young son; wizards were the worst creatures to exist. They enslaved the house elves, hunted their great ancestors, the high elves, into extinction, and were soon going to do the same to Harry’s own race, the highland fae. 

 

And yet, Blue did not seem stripped of all her rights and bound in servitude. She named herself, and spoke well enough, indicating at least some form of basic education. 

 

_ “And your master, the Dark Lord… does he hurt you?”  _ Harry asks urgently. 

 

Blue’s eyes grow wide, as her ears once again seem to perk up on her head, much like a frightened cat.  _ “Oh, no! Never!”  _ She insists, with such vehemence it causes Harry to rear back.  _ “Master is kind— Master is kind to all creatures, yes he is. He would never hurt any magical creature! He’s our savior!” _

 

_ “Savior?”  _ Harry repeats, skeptically. 

 

She nods eagerly.  _ “Now that master is Minister, things have been changing. Blue can go shopping for herself and buy things without wizards turning her away. Blue learns things; Blue could go to school if she so chooses.”  _ She shakes her head rapidly.  _ “But Blue would never do that! Blue likes serving her Master; he is a kind and good Master to Blue.” _

 

Harry isn’t sure what to think of this, but he merely nods along. He’d love to point out how this ‘kind and good’ Master of hers, apparently the ‘savior’ of magical creatures, was currently holding a magical creature against his will and was going to be forcing him every night to— 

 

Harry cuts himself off with a blush. Well at any rate, it doesn’t seem like a point worth arguing currently. 

 

_ “How long has the Dark Lord been in charge for?”  _ He asks instead. 

 

Blue ponders on this.  _ “Two summers, Blue thinks.”  _

 

Almost three years then, Harry mentally files away for later. He and his mother stayed as far away from civilization as possible, so he wasn’t at all up to date with current affairs. 

 

He takes Blue up on her offer for afternoon tea, settling into a comfy bistro table by the veranda balcony, with a lovely view of the gardens.

 

At least now he knew who this human holding him captive was— even if he still didn’t know how to feel about him. He was a Dark Lord, and apparently also the Minister of Magic. Harry shakes his head. He’s being kept by the  _ Minister of Magic?  _ A Minister of Magic who is hypocritically an advocate for creature rights, at that. But upon further inspection, Harry can perhaps see merit to that. 

 

He’s been very upfront with Harry, after all. He had said he didn’t want to hurt him; that he would never intentionally cause him harm, and he had seemed genuine. He’d been equally as genuine when he’d told Harry that he wanted his nectar, and would stop at nothing to get it. So he at least had the courtesy to be upfront and honest about his intentions.

 

Harry takes a sip of his tea, sizing up the little finger sandwiches on the tiered tray in front of him with great enthusiasm. They are the cutest things he’s ever seen— almost too cute to eat, truly. But if they’re anything like the rest of the food Harry’s eaten here, they most likely taste too delicious not to eat. 

 

“Does the young master want anything else?” Blue asks eagerly, popping into existence by his side.

 

He shakes his head.  _ “No. Thank you Blue, you’ve been very helpful.” _

 

Blue all but beams at him, bowing as she disappears. 

 

Harry sighs, turning his attention back to the gardens beyond the balcony. 

 

He’s exactly where he started this morning— without a single clue on how to proceed. 

 

What would his mother think?

 

Harry’s expression turns sour as he drops the cup back into its saucer. Willingly succumbing to a human like this? He can’t even begin to fathom her disappointment. She’s spent her whole life trying to save him from this fate— she  _ gave  _ her life for his freedom, and this is how he repays her? She would be disgusted to see him now, so easily giving in to all the comforts and luxury. And yet, Harry knows that’s only a part of her; the bitter part of her that has seen the worst of humanity. The pragmatic side of Lily would most likely approve. She might even be relieved, knowing her baby boy is apparently in the safest manor in England, and at the very least, well-cared for. That’s all she ever really wanted for him, really. She had just wanted him to be safe and content, and it killed her every day they spent on the run, knowing she couldn’t give that to him. 

 

Harry pushes his plate away, no longer hungry. 

 

He didn’t know which side of Lily would have taken over, if he had ever had the chance to explain. 

 

Harry is annoyed to realize that, by the end of the day, he’s come to the same damn conclusion he’d come to this time yesterday; wait and see. He was safe. He had somewhere to sleep tonight, and had what undoubtedly would be a spectacular breakfast waiting for him tomorrow morning. Perhaps even a bath, after that. Yes, in about fifteen minutes a human was going to walk through those doors and… and ask him to take off his robe, and turn around, and…

 

Harry curls in on himself, huddled in the middle of the bed. He was shaking, and couldn’t figure out a way to get himself to stop.

 

_ It’s not going to hurt, _ he reminds himself, balefully. It’s only ten minutes. He can do this. 

 

But then, fifteen minutes comes and goes, then thirty, then an hour. Harry slowly uncurls himself as the numbers on the clock slough by; soon enough it’s almost ten at night, with no sign of the Dark Lord. Bewildered, Harry debates staying up for him or not. Ultimately he decides it’s the man’s own fault for being late. And if he’s that desperate for his nectar, he would probably just wake Harry up anyway. 

 

It still puts him on edge, though. 

 

&&

 

He leaves the boy be for the night, not sure if he’s even capable of handling  _ that  _ so soon after the last time. He still couldn’t believe how easily he had lost control. He had clearly underestimated the powerful allure of a fae’s honey propolis. He’d never felt like that from drinking the vials he’d purchased off the black market; but then, he also hadn’t been getting them so  _ fresh  _ from the source…

 

He very deliberately pushes that thought away, intending on actually focusing on his work today, as opposed to spending yet another day musing on the fairy waiting for him at home. 

 

Unsurprisingly this is an idea doomed to fail. He’s barely getting any work done, so he decides to use his lunch break to go for a walk down Diagon Alley and clear his head. He’s almost immediately sidetracked when he spies an exquisite oriental robe on display in Madame Malkin’s. It’s a shimmering silk of a shade just a hair off white, not quite lavender but not quite silver, with meticulous, finely detailed patterns stitched into the high mandarin collar and voluminous sleeves. The cut is flowy and ethereal, and he immediately thinks on how splendid it would look on his fairy. 

 

He’s purchasing it before he can think better of it, and even after he’s had time to come to terms with his spontaneous actions he can’t quite bring himself to be surprised or irritated. 

 

Once he’d made the decision to obtain a fae, he’d gone about fastidiously and systematically preparing everything with the preferences of the highland fae in mind. He had fashioned an entire set of rooms in the east wing to better suit the taste of the fae. The highland fae were the purest descendants of the high elves, and like their ancestors they enjoyed their comforts and luxuries. It was said that the high elves had palaces carved into crystal caves, full of jewels and splendors beyond human imagination. They lived among nature, a harmonious coexistence with the utmost respect for the earth and the seasons and most specifically, the ice and snow. 

 

Unfortunately he could not change the climate of the British Isles to better suit the highland fae’s naturally snowy climate, but he could certainly provide luxuries. He’d had the windows enlarged to let in more light and provide more access to nature;  the bed and furnishings were all done up in silvers and whites, reminiscent of the wintry mountains the highland fae call home. He had even at least attempted to fix up the gardens, although that was perhaps a lost cause. Supposedly elves enjoyed only the finest of silks and the softest of fabrics, so he had a wardrobe tailored with the fashion of the elves in mind. He had nothing but detailed drawings in history books to go off of, but he thought the tailor had done an excellent job. And when he had seen the young fairy that night, dressed in nothing but one of his ornately embroidered bathrobes… he couldn’t think of anything more suited for the boy.

 

And now that he had actually laid eyes on him, he had an even better idea of what would look best on him. 

 

The bag with his purchase sits innocuously by his desk all day, drawing a few curious gazes during his meetings, but the Dark Lord does not enlighten them and the meeting attendees would never dare to ask. He leaves early, much to his secretary’s surprise (he doesn’t think he’s ever left earlier than six in his entire tenure as Minister) bag in tow. He’s mildly irritated with his own giddiness; he has a feeling his gift will not be well received in the slightest. His fairy does not seem all that fond of him, and mankind as a whole, and he doesn’t think one garment is going to change that. 

 

The fairy is not in his rooms, so he calls one of his house elves to find his location. That turns out to be an unnecessary action; at that moment he catches sight of the boy outside one of the open windows, crouched by the pond. He looks picturesque, amongst the overgrown wild flowers and the foliage, a contented smile playing upon his face— the first real expression he’s seen the boy make. 

 

The Dark Lord exits the manor from one of the side balconies, making his way towards the center of the courtyard, where the fae is drawing his finger gently against the surface of the water. The warm sunshine and charming scenery make the whole encounter seem oddly dreamlike, too vivid for a memory, but too arresting to be real. He thinks he could stare at the boy for all of eternity and never once want to tear his eyes away. 

 

But then the boy notices his presence and predictably, the smile falls away when the boy catches sight of him. 

 

They stare at each other for a long moment. The fairy’s bright eyes are impossible to read as they meet his own gaze head on— at least until the boy is distracted. A purple emperor butterfly floats between them, captivating the boy’s attention. It flutters to land in the boy’s hair; the uncommon insect looks as it belongs there in the boy’s unruly curls, like a hair pin of some kind. 

 

He’s surprised to see it; the butterfly is incredibly rare, and Voldemort certainly does not have the kind of garden that could ever hope to attract such a picky consumer. Severus would eat his own hand if he saw such a rare thing so casually fluttering through the air; the dust left behind from its wings was one of the rarest and most expensive potions ingredients. Lucius has been trying to attract them for years— he says they look magnificent with the contrast of his pure white peacocks— and has curated a veritable horticulture symposium in order to do so. As far as Voldemort can tell, despite his best efforts and all the galleons in the world he hasn’t managed to get a single one. And yet, this flimsy excuse for a garden, an overrun courtyard left behind by the previous owners of the manor that Voldemort never bothered to fix, has managed to attract not just one, but several. He can see a few more fluttering in the bushes behind the boy. It’s a truly baffling phenomenon.

 

His attention moves from the butterfly to the fairy, who is now holding out a finger for the creature to land upon. After a moment of deliberation, the insect leaves its current roost in favor of the new one. The boy smiles at it, lowering his hand so the butterfly is level with his eyes. 

 

Or perhaps, it’s really not that baffling.

 

“Snow White,” he murmurs, drawing the fae’s attention.

 

The boy looks at him with confusion.

 

However, he doesn’t bother to elaborate. Not that he ever would— he does not speak of his childhood, to anyone. And he rarely thinks upon it, if he can help it. It always leaves a sour taste in his mouth, dragging up bad memories he’d rather keep buried. This time, though, he thinks upon it with an odd bittersweet longing. 

 

Snow White was the first fairytale he ever read, and the one that left the biggest impression on him. Mostly because it enraged him. The vapid Snow White went about and charmed everyone she met, from the Prince to the dwarves to the many forest creatures, without any apparent effort at all. He didn’t understand; why was it so easy for her to make friends? She didn’t even have to try, and meanwhile he tried so hard and no one ever wanted to be friends with him. Eventually he learned to outgrow such childish mentalities, but Snow White never stopped eliciting his fascination.

 

That fascination only grew tenfold when he arrived at Hogwarts and found a tome on the lineage of the high elves. He was already greatly interested in all magical creatures but most especially the high elves and their descendants, and when he realized Snow White had to have been a fairy of some kind, he only grew more enamored with them. He’d deduced the story was most likely based off of a woodland fae, as they were said to be able to communicate with animals, but he could never confirm it for sure. It was just a fairytale, after all. The myth must have come from somewhere, but there was no way to tell to what extent it was true, if at all.

 

Now he is quite certain of it, though. Somewhere in the lush river valleys of the Rhineland a human man must have come in contact with a creature not unlike the one before him now, surrounded by sunshine and nature and twinkling butterflies and the soft call of birds. And thus a legend was born.

 

&&

 

The smile on the man’s face is an odd thing— it looks sad and wistful, Harry thinks, but it is gone before he can even really confirm its existence.

 

The butterfly on his finger flies away as the human steps forward. Harry is half inclined to take a step back, out of pure instinct, but then he realizes the man is holding something out to him.

 

It is… a paper bag of some kind. He doesn’t know enough about human civilization to recognize what it is, exactly, but he can certainly read the script printed on the side of it;  _ Madam Malkin’s Robes for Every Occasion. _

 

Clothing, Harry thinks curiously. But doesn’t he have enough clothing already? He’s never given much thought to clothes; he had one pair of them, and when his mother thought it safe enough she would use a bit of magic to mend or resize them, but that was few and far between, as his mother was (quite rightly) always wary of using elven magic when anyone was nearby. They would sneak into muggle towns when the weather grew colder to get new clothing from their charities, and the garments they received were unremarkable hand-me-downs. Quite frankly, Harry didn’t even know what to do with the vast amount of beautiful garments in his vast and beautiful dressing room.

 

Harry stares down into the contents of the bag, and doesn’t know how to feel. 

 

It’s a breathtaking, silken robe of some kind. The embroidery alone is stunning. It’s so soft to the touch it feels like water beneath his finger tips. 

 

Voldemort watches his response with anticipation, as he hands the parcel over to the boy. The fairy’s expression turns complicated and difficult to read when he sees what lies inside. 

 

“For you,” he says, needlessly. It’s clear who it’s intended for. 

 

The young fae nods, reaching in to touch the robes gently, before lowering the bag as his eyes fix somewhere on the ground. 

 

He’s not disappointed per say, since this was exactly the reaction he had expected. The fairy accepted it, and that’s good enough for him. He didn’t expect anything else. 

 

This is why he is so stunned to see the creature with an expression that is… almost gentle? There is a slight smile gracing his features, so small it’s barely noticeable, but just enough to reveal the beginning crease of a dimple. He has dimples, the man thinks, and is inanely fixated on the thought. So much so that he almost forgets that the fairy is  _ smiling _ . At  _ him. _

 

It is enough to leave him breathless. Not just the smile— although it is quite beautiful— but the realization it elicits within him.

 

An idea has taken root in his head.

 

It’s a gamble, and one that has little chance of paying off.

 

It also will take a long time; how long, he wouldn’t even be able to estimate. Months? Years? Decades? Most of his lifetime? More than likely, he won’t even see the outcome at all. There is a good chance he’ll put in all this effort and time and still fail. But the idea takes root in his mind, and suddenly he realizes there is no other path he can take. There is no other path he  _ wants _ to take. Was this the path Atargatis foresaw? 

 

_ Perhaps it is not so impossible _ , he thinks, quickly, as his thoughts turn to the mermaid. Perhaps this is how it’s supposed to be.

 

He finds himself smiling back. “Is it to your liking, then?”

 

The young fairy nods, looking somewhat shy. 

 

It’s far more than he had hoped for. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says, earnestly. “Have you had dinner yet?” 

 

This clearly surprises the boy. After a long moment, he shakes his head. 

 

He tilts his head. “Would you like to join me, then?”

 

So many emotions cross the boy’s features— too fast for him to decipher— and he appears frozen in place. There’s another long moment, where Voldemort wonders if that was too forward. He’s about to open his mouth to reassure the boy he doesn’t have to, when the fairy gives a slight shrug. It’s probably as much of an acquiescence as he’s going to get, so he gestures to the pavillion behind the boy. 

 

He’s never actually used it, since he so rarely dines at home and would never bother to do so outside, so the open platform is empty. He snaps his fingers, Foo appearing by his side. “Set the table for two, please.” He tells the house elf, who nods eagerly. The fairy watches his interaction with his house elf with great curiosity.  

 

In seconds a bistro table has appeared in the center of the structure, accompanied by two chairs and a full set of tableware. Upon closer inspection it appears to be the nice silverware; fine porcelain engraved with hand-painted gold embellishments—  rarely used as Voldemort never has company over. Clearly the house elves were extremely over eager to please him. His eyes slide to the boy staring at the display with wonder. Or perhaps, they were more eager to please his guest? 

 

As they sit down the food appears before them. 

 

He takes one look at it, and realizes he doesn't recognize any of the dishes at all.

 

The Dark Lord has no real set menu for his manor, unlike most pureblood families he doesn’t entertain guests often and has no interest in such superfluous proclivities. He’s not a picky eater— his childhood has seen to that— and if he’s to have important guests over he has state dinners that are normally held in the Ministry ballroom. Most of his cooking elves were gifts from the Black’s, so without any dictation from their new master they continue to cook whatever their former masters wanted. It’s not as if he’s ever had a problem with it, so he’s never bothered to ask them to change it.

 

And yet, the first thing he notices is that this is not the usual fair they serve.

 

First of all, there is almost no meat to speak of. He remembers the first time he actually came home for a meal, about five months into his purchasing of the manor, the house elves had served him an entire boar. He’d made them stop such nonsense immediately, but more manageable portions of exotic meats were always a staple regardless. 

 

His eyes drift over the food laid out on the table to the boy sitting across from him. 

 

Ah, perhaps it’s not so surprising then. Fae do not eat meat of any kind, if he recalls correctly. Despite being omnivorous in constitution, elves and their descendants are usually herbivores by choosing. He finds himself wholly invested in observing the boy’s dietary choices merely from an academic perspective. The researcher within him is all but buzzing with excitement at the idea of having a creature of such myth available for study; the more logical part of his brain reminds him it’s rather rude to simply stare at someone as they eat, and he forces himself to get a few servings himself. Truthfully he’s still in awe that the fairy has deigned to eat with him at all; although, now that he thinks on it more than likely he feels he doesn’t have a choice. 

 

The Dark Lord might not know it, but the fairy in question is observing him just as closely.

 

Harry wonders if all humans are this curious, or if it’s just that this one in particular is remarkably stranger than usual. He hasn’t really encountered enough of them to know— but he at least knows that this man is certainly a vast change from the few humans Harry has had the misfortune of interacting with. 

 

He’s certainly different, but not entirely so. He’s still after the same thing, after all.

 

The thought makes Harry’s mood take a swan dive, as he remembers evening is close at hand. The man hadn’t come last night, though. But Harry doubts he’s aiming to make a habit out of that. The man paid a small fortune for Harry, after all. It would be quite a waste of investment. 

 

And yet, as they finish their meal in relative silence, the man does not ask him to return to his rooms. Actually, he is pulled away by a phone call, and Harry is informed a half hour later by Foo that the Dark Lord has returned to the Ministry, and will not be returning for some time.

 

Is something going on there? Harry wonders. Maybe he’s just very busy right now, and doesn’t have the time.

 

Whatever the case, it is a reprieve for Harry, and he’ll take whatever he can get. 

 

All the same as he readies for bed, he finds himself reaching for the robes inside the bag. He examines it very carefully now that he’s alone and has the opportunity to give it his full inspection. 

 

It really is quite beautiful.

 

And Harry still doesn’t understand why the human gave it to him. 

 

Well, to wear, obviously. But why? He’s certainly given him enough clothes. Harry wonders if he’s just reading into it too much. Or maybe he’s not reading into it enough? He knows nothing of humankind, other than what his mother has told him. He doesn’t know anything about human relationships, their culture or their society. All he knows is inferred from the few things he knows about his parent’s relationship. During her particularly nostalgic moments, his mother would share stories about his father, how they met, falling in love, having Harry together. But she never spoke much of humans as a whole, not in the way she did elves. 

 

More than likely that was because knowledge on humans was prolific and easy to come by. Elves, on the other hand, are long gone, and there are very few of their descendants left to pass on their oral traditions. The highland fae, sometimes referred to as the snow fae, or snow elf, are the most direct and pure of their descendants and therefore it was up to them to preserve the knowledge of their people, or so his mother always said. Harry’s line especially; his mother could trace her lineage all the way back to the time of the high elves. 

 

At any rate, Harry knew far more about elves than he did humans, and if he hadn’t known any better he would have thought this was a courtship gift of some kind. 

 

That’s what it would be considered in elven culture, at least. But Harry was dead certain there was no such courtship happening in this case. Harry was nothing more than a fresh source of honey propolis to him; the human probably thought him little more than an animal. That’s what all the other humans thought.

 

Harry places the garment back into its bag, pulling down the covers and settling into the silken sheets. 

 

He wills himself to stop thinking about such depressing things, and tries his best to fall asleep.

 

###  &&

###  3.

 

Harry wishes he could burn the thing for all the trouble it’s caused him. 

 

It had inadvertently opened up a can of worms that Harry had desperately tried to keep shut.

 

He tossed and turned all night, thoughts chasing themselves around his head with answers unforthcoming. His thoughts were far too existential for such late hours, as he pondered on the meaning of life and why he had to be born like this. His mother insisted it was an incredible gift to be what they are, but Harry doesn’t see how. How was it a gift to be hunted down since birth, destined for death or enslavery? He wonders what it would have been like if he had been born a human. His father was human, after all— what if he had been human too? Would their neighbors have still sold them out to poachers? Probably not. Fae young, especially newborns, were unheard of and basically priceless. It wasn’t the kind of money you could say no to. But if Harry had been born as just a regular human, he wouldn’t have been worth a single sickle. And no one would have known about his mother if he hadn’t been born. They had hidden themselves well enough for all the years they’d been together before Harry had come along— if Harry had never existed, they’d probably still both be alive, living together in happy anonymity. 

 

Come morning Harry was in a maudlin and somber mood all day. Not even the warm weather and outdoors could clear his mood.

 

When the human returns for the evening— this time precisely at eight o’clock— Harry can’t even muster up the energy to care. 

 

Until the human takes something out of his robes, that is. 

 

The very sight of it chills him. 

 

He knows what it is. His memory might be vague and hazy, but he’ll never forget the first time they had held him down and forced that  _ thing  _ inside him. It hadn’t actually hurt, but Harry had still cried anyhow. 

 

Suffice to say, the pumping apparatus brought back horrible memories of his time in captivity. Harry unconsciously found himself backing away from both the man and the device, until the back of his knees hit the bed.

 

The man frowns at his reaction. “Do you know what this is?” He asks.

 

Harry gives a fraction of a nod, too stiff to manage anything else.

 

“I wanted to leave it as an option,” the human explains. “It’s perfectly understandable if you would prefer it. As I said, I need your nectar. But  _ how _ I receive it is of no consequence to me.”

 

He takes a step towards Harry, holding out his hand as if to give the pipette to him. Harry all but leaps back, scrambling on the bed to get away from it. 

 

The Dark Lord stops his advancement, looking surprised. “... You don’t want it?”

 

Harry shakes his head vehemently. 

 

The human stares at him for a long moment. He lowers his hand. “You realize the only other way is for me to take it is…  _ manually _ .” He finishes, tactfully. 

 

Harry just looks away, a steady flush rising on his cheeks. Finally, he just shrugs.

 

The man looks skeptical, and confused. “You would prefer that?” He confirms, dubiously.

 

Harry manages a nod. 

 

That is not at all what Voldemort expected. He hadn’t even given this eventuality a thought, so he finds himself unprepared for the idea of taking the boy that way again. A little mental preparation would have been preferable; the last thing he needs is to lose control of himself and terrify the fairy yet again. 

 

“Very well then,” he says, after he’s recovered from his shock. 

 

He places the device on the table, in case the fairy changes his mind. He walks carefully towards the creature on the bed; glittering emerald eyes stare up at him, but the boy makes no move to shy away from him as he had the pump. He looks nervous, and a bit afraid, but he does not back down. 

 

He joins the boy on the bed.

 

It was…  _ different _ , this time. 

 

The man is far gentler, for one, and while it still made Harry feel hot all over he doesn’t feel so overwhelmed he wants to crawl out of his own skin. It is more of a slow burn, the man’s tongue tenderly coaxing out Harry’s nectar. He has to make a valiant effort not to make any noise. It’s just… it feels  _ good.  _ It feels foreign and strange and maybe even a bit distressing, and he wouldn’t say he  _ likes  _ it, but at this point he’s been given enough arousal potions to know what the sensation feels like. But that sensation had always been induced my magical ingredients— not by an actual  _ person. _

 

He lasts a few more minutes before he feels the need to squirm out of the man’s grip and run, the heat in his stomach growing into something he doesn’t know what to do with. 

 

The human doesn’t use his fingers this time, but all the same Harry’s unruly imagination finds itself wandering down that path anyway. He resists, but the thought is already planted, and his memory is already reminding him exactly how it felt to have one of those long, slender fingers inside of him, coaxing his arousal into even greater waves of need. The way it felt to have something open him up like that… he would have thought it would hurt, to be stretched wide like that, but right now he couldn’t imagine it to be the case. 

 

The man’s tongue stabs into him then, and Harry’s stomach seems to tighten with a foreign need. He wants to close his legs, but the iron grip keeping them spread open won’t allow for that. It’s getting to be too much again though; the attention to his entrance is making his inner passage begin to slicken in earnest. He’s not an idiot, he knows what it means. The humans might only be interested in its properties as a magical ingredient, but that’s not actually what it’s  _ for.  _ It’s a natural lubrication, found in both male and female fae but males in particular, since both can bear children but males tend to need a bit more help from magic in order to do so. It’s a signal, to anyone with a decent enough nose, that Harry is fertile and ready to be mated. That’s basically what his body’s doing now; signalling to this human that he’s ready to be impregnated. 

 

Just the mere thought has him struggling in the man’s grip, a low whine involuntarily rising from his throat. 

 

The human stops at the noise, releasing him. 

 

“Are you alright?” He asks, urgently, rising from behind the fae to get a better look at his face.

 

The creature looks okay, he thinks. A bit flushed, but that isn’t exactly surprising, considering their current activities. The fairy is staring up at him, or rather, at his mouth. He hastily wipes his lips, even as he wonders what the fairy is thinking, as he looks at him. It’s not a look of hatred, as he would have expected, after taking something like this from the boy. It’s not fond either, but… he’s not really sure what it is. Contemplative, maybe. 

 

The fairy nods then, finally, dropping his gaze. He tugs his robe closed as he curls in around himself. He looks so small, like that. Small and young and vulnerable. He is not a nice man by any means, that is unquestionable, but he’s never felt more like a monster than he does now. Voldemort wants to offer the boy some kind of comfort, but he imagines that wouldn’t be a welcomed gesture. 

 

He looks at the clock. They ended a bit early, but he supposes that’s warranted, since they ran a bit late the last time. 

 

“We don’t have to do this every night.” He says then, surprising the boy. 

 

By his calculations though, he is correct. Once every twenty-four hours would be ideal, but he understands that’s asking a lot. “Once a week should suffice,” he continues, looking down at the boy. “Would that be alright with you?”

 

Harry is still surprised the human even bothers to ask. Still, he nods. Once a week sounds decent enough to him. Better than he would have expected. 

 

“Very well then. I will see you this time next week.” 

 

Harry blinks. Does that mean he won’t see the man until then? Not even a glimpse? This is his house after all, although Harry supposes that it’s size would make it easy to avoid someone for months on end; a week wouldn’t be too difficult. 

 

Nonetheless he nods. What does it matter, anyway, whether he sees the man or not? 

 

The less of him the better, right?

 

But as he leaves, Harry can’t help but wonder if he really thinks that. The thing is, the man is not cruel. He’s not even holding Harry here against his will, even though he probably thinks he is. Harry thinks he might be a decent enough human; not that his track record with the species has been particularly noteworthy, but all the other humans he met were vicious and mean, and treated him terribly. He couldn’t say the same for this Dark Lord, even though he was, in the end, after the same thing the rest of them were. 

 

Harry scoots off the bed and heads towards the shower, antsy to rinse the scent of human off of his skin, and wash away any evidence of their prior activities. 

 

Thinking about the Dark Lord is confusing, but so is thinking about anything else in his life. 

 

&&

 

He decides he needs something to distract him. 

 

The next morning finds a sunny and pleasant day outside his windows, so he asks the house elf to move his breakfast outside. The sunshine is warm against his skin, the light breeze enough to cool him and keep the bite of heat away. He also asks the elf for a copy of the newspaper, which surprises it. It’s a new one, not Foo or Blue. This one is named Mop; Mop was named something else by his former employers, but many of the Dark Lord's elves renamed themselves once they began employment here. He’s much chattier than the somewhat stoic Foo and the skittish Blue, and doesn’t mind that Harry asks him lots of questions. He seems more than happy to converse in elvish with someone that wasn’t a fellow house elf. 

 

_ “Young master Harry is very pretty, _ ” Mop confesses shyly, looking up at him with big eyes.

 

Harry blinks. He’s never heard that before.  _ “Oh. Um… thank you.” _

 

_ “Is that why Master fell in love with you?”  _ The elf asks eagerly, ears flopping about. 

 

Harry flushes brilliantly, near choking on his tea.  _ “E— Excuse me?” _

 

_ “Master had the whole wing redone for young master Harry!”  _ Mop reveals, with excited eyes.  _ “For many moons the elves cleaned the mansion up; Master had moved in long ago, but he was never home, and never cared about his house. But then one day, he came home and asked us all to help him clean! He said the east wing would be home to someone special, so we needed to clean that part real good.” _

 

Harry stares at the little house elf, stunned. He finds that his voice and the thoughts in his head have both left him. 

 

Fortunately, Mop continues without prompting;  _ “The rest of the house, we elves just cleaned. But the east wing was special, he picked out all new things. He said his guest likes snow and sunlight, so we used elf magic to make the windows big and tall! Master picked out new bedding and carpets and drapes, and all new furniture. And books and soaps and lots of clothing.” _

 

Harry swallows with no small amount of difficulty. He doesn’t know how to feel.  _ “He…”  _ He finds his throat has gone dry, and has to reach for a glass of juice.  _ “He did all that for me?”  _ He manages to finish.

 

Mop nods enthusiastically.  _ “Yes, and then young master Harry comes, and we realize why! Young master Harry is a snow elf!” _

 

_ “A highland fairy,”  _ Harry corrects, but the distinction is useless. 

 

Mop peers up at him with big eyes.  _ “Does young master Harry like his rooms? Does young master Harry like the house elves?” _

 

_ “Yes,”  _ Harry nods hastily.  _ “Yes, I like my rooms. And I enjoy your company quite a bit. I know you guys are busy with housework, but I’d like if you came to visit me from time to time.” _

 

To his alarm, Mop bursts into tears.  _ “The young master is so kind…”  _ He sniffles, wiping his tears on his apron.  _ “So sweet and kind… it is no wonder Master fell in love with him!” _

 

_ “Oh, that’s, um, that’s not really…”  _ Harry trails off, completely at a loss for words. That is not the case at all, but he doesn’t want to explain the real reason he’s here. It’s just, the house elves are so happy and excited, is all. They clearly love their Master, and their lives here. He doesn’t want to ruin that. 

 

_ “Young master doesn’t need to be so modest,”  _ Mop cries,  _ “but he is so wonderful, he would not boast. I see. Young master is perfect for Master. They are both so nice to Mop… will young master and Master marry soon?” _

 

_ “H— Huh?”  _ Harry’s eyes grow wide.

 

Mop doesn’t notice his unease, his eyes growing wide with delight, ears perking up. He claps his hands.  _ “Oh! Please tell Mop it will be soon! Mop can’t wait to see the babies!” _

 

_ “Babies?”  _ Harry repeats with horror. Oh Merlin. Anything but that. 

 

Fortunately, he is saved by the appearance of Foo. His ears are reared back, much like a hissing cat’s, his eyes wide and furious. 

 

_ “Mop!”  _ He chastises, tugging the other house elf by the ear.  _ “How could you ask the young master such improper things? Don’t you know your place? We are but servants to the great and wonderful Dark Lord, how dare you be so presumptuous!”  _

 

_ “Mop is sorry!”  _ Mop cries in dismay.  _ “Mop did not mean to upset the young master! Mop is so sorry— Mop will iron his hands thirteen times—  _

 

_ “There’s no need for that.”  _ Harry assures quickly, alarmed.  _ “Truly. It’s alright Foo. He can ask what he likes. I don’t consider you all to be my servants.” _

 

The fairy pauses then, biting his lip.  _ “Actually… I would really like it if you guys would consider me your friend.” _

 

Both elves stare at him with bulging eyes. Then they both burst into tears in unison.

 

All in all it’s a very eventful morning. 

 

Harry manages to get them both to calm down after that, assuring them that he doesn’t mind the questions and he does indeed enjoy their company. That being said they do have duties to attend to, so they leave him to his breakfast, with promises to stop by later. It’s more drama than he was prepared to handle this morning, but all the same it brings a smile to his face. He’s never had any friends before. He barely has reason to even hold conversations. The last time he spoke before meeting the elves was probably… when he talked to the Veela girl while they were both being held captive. It’s a nice feeling, being able to talk to others. 

 

He settles into his chair, spreading open the newspaper. 

 

He takes a bite out of a blueberry scone, more out of curiosity than anything, and decides he rather likes the flavor. He gobbles that one and reaches for a new one, settling in to read. 

 

His eye immediately catches on a banner announcing the opening of a new primary school in some place called Otter St. Catchpole. He stares at it longingly, at the little kids grinning and waving in the photo. He had always wanted to go to school. It was an impossible dream, of course, and always made him wonder what could have been. He’d never had a friend before, well, a human friend anyway. He supposed he can count the elves now. An age mate, someone to play with when he was lonely. If only…

 

Harry shakes his head vehemently, briskly turning the page so the article disappears from his sight. He determinably moves to read an article on new transportation laws. 

 

He expects that to be the end to his eventful morning.

 

He was wrong.

 

The glass door leading indoors slides open, near startling him into dropping his scone as he trudges through a particularly trying passage on tax laws. 

 

It is the Dark Lord. 

 

“Do you mind if I join you?” He asks, and Harry finds himself once again fixated on the way he asks. He asks for things, instead of just taking them. And his voice is never impatient nor demanding. 

 

Harry barely has enough presence of mind to nod. 

 

Voldemort joins the fairy out on the patio, noticing with surprise that the fairy is reading the newspaper.

 

_ So much for being illiterate _ , the Dark Lord thinks, drily. 

 

All the same though, that does beg the issue; how  _ did  _ the fairy learn to read? Perhaps he attended muggle school as a child, before his otherworldly nature became too obvious. Voldemort does not know the first thing about the boy, and unfortunately as he is mute, he probably never will. 

 

The fairy looks uncomfortable by his presence, so he makes a show of ignoring him. He reaches for the teapot, pouring himself a cup before he moves on to the grand breakfast spread before them. There’s a three-tiered tray of scones and muffins and other assorted bread items; a plate of eggs; a pot of oatmeal; and in the center is a tray of cinnamon buns. He’s not really one for breakfast, so he serves himself eggs and toast. He notices that there is, once again, a conspicuous lack of meat on the table. His elves are clearly showing favoritism, but he can’t bring it in himself to scold them. Not when he feels the same. 

 

It’s pleasant, despite the silence. Eventually the fairy returns to his reading, once it becomes clear Voldemort doesn’t intend to take up much of his attention. He rarely takes the morning off like this, but it is the weekend, and he can honestly say he has better things to do than paperwork. Usually that’s not the case; his work is his life, and he has dedicated himself to it with everything he has. But now, there is an ethereal creature of great myth and splendor right before him, and his presence overshadows any paperwork that might need attending to.

 

Meanwhile, Harry can’t help but wonder why the man is always just  _ staring  _ at him. What is he thinking about? Why does he stare so intensely? 

 

Harry tries to focus on the newspaper, but he finds it hard to concentrate. Not that transportation taxes were all that riveting anyway. His thoughts are completely overtaken by this human. 

 

Did he really do all that for Harry? The elves had said he’d redone the entire east wing, just for Harry. That everything in his rooms had been handpicked by the man with him in mind. That the entire mansion was decrepit and had fallen into disrepair, only to be cleaned up and restored to its former glory, all for Harry. He didn’t know how he felt about that. 

 

He doesn’t know he feels about the man, period.

 

He did all this for Harry— he even bought him new robes, despite procuring him dozens of them already. He must have saw it somewhere then, in a store of some kind, and thought that it suited him. He must have thought of him. 

 

He probably thinks about him a lot, if Harry is reading this correctly.

 

But… why?

 

All he wanted out of Harry was his propolis, right? Harry was nothing more than a fresh source of nectar, just a receptacle for his product. 

 

But if that was truly the case, why go through all the trouble? Why bother to make sure Harry was comfortable and warm at night and well-fed and well-clothed? Why be sitting across from him now? Surely he has better things to do with his time than sit here in the appallingly poor company of a mute child who won’t speak word. 

 

It was hurting his head, honestly. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’d hoped breakfast and some fresh air would alleviate him of all his troubles, if only for a little bit, but that was turning out to be a lost cause. 

 

If Harry was confused, than Voldemort was completely bewildered. 

 

He had all these grand ideas about the highland fae, but he had never actually thought on what the fairy might be like, personally. He was more than just his genetic makeup, after all. He was a sentient being with thoughts and feelings— likes and dislikes, fears, dreams… Voldemort had never thought about those when contemplating his purchasing of a fae. He never thought about what the fae might be like, as a person.

 

On that front, he was still confused. The boy couldn’t speak, which made understanding him rather difficult. All the same it was clear he was not slow or dim in the least; there was a mind working behind those eyes, but Voldemort had no idea what might lay inside. 

 

He hasn’t known the boy very long, but already he thinks he can glean some of his personality.

 

He is brave. He could have cowered in the closet or stayed hiding in his rooms all day, but his house elves tell him that the boy often likes to look around and explore. He’s curious, too. And he likes to be outside. He doesn’t like meat, and as Voldemort predicted, prefers soft clothing. He also, surprisingly, seems to enjoy the sunshine. He’d worried the climate might be too hot for a highland fae to truly feel comfortable, but it appeared the boy didn’t mind in the least. 

 

And yet, with every new thing he comes to learn about the boy, he has to wonder— does he like it? 

 

Does he like this place? The mansion Voldemort had purchased when he realized he was Minister and it wouldn’t do to have no property in his name at such a status; the mansion that he had restored just because he didn’t want the fairy to live in something so decrepit; the wing he had completely redone for the fairy, the clothes he purchased for him? He doesn’t seem to actively dislike any of it, but he’s also being held here against his will. If given the chance, he’d probably leave in a heartbeat. Maybe after murdering the Dark Lord for his sins against him. It’s what Voldemort would have done. 

 

The boy is probably just trying to do what he can given his situation. He must have come to the obvious conclusion that there was no point in trying to escape, and had accepted it as best he could. Voldemort could respect him for that. 

 

Trying to get the boy to actually like being here was probably a lost cause. He should take a page out of the boy’s book, and give up and just accept things for how they are. And yet, he remembers the promise hevowed to himself, that day in the garden. It was an impossible and lost cause, but he would never give up all the same. The boy can hate him for all of eternity, but that will not stop him from trying to treat the boy with as much decency and respect he can offer in the situation he's put them in. It's the least he can do, considering what he's doing to the the creature. 

 

&&

 

In reality, Harry was thinking the opposite. He honestly thought he might have started to like being here.

 

He spent endless days in relaxing splendor, with the cheerful elves, the birds and the butterflies, and even the small wildlife that roamed the garden as company whenever he felt lonely. He missed his mother terribly, but he had made his peace with her death. She died to try to save him, and he wouldn’t squander his life and her sacrifice so needlessly. She died for his happiness, and he wanted to live up to that. 

 

It wasn’t all that difficult. He had never felt so comfortable in his life. 

 

Sure, every week the human who had bought him appeared in his bedroom in the darkness of the night, to do all sorts of immoral acts to his person with that incredibly talented tongue of his… but if Harry thought too long on that he’d get so flushed in the face he’d likely overheat. At any rate, aside from that, his life was wonderful. And if Harry was being entirely honest, he didn’t know how he felt about…  _ that _ . As much as it made him uncomfortable, he also couldn’t pretend as if it didn’t feel good. The encounters always left him hot and aroused, feeling like he wanted a release of some kind, even if he didn’t know what. He wondered if the human felt the same way, afterwards.

 

They didn’t eat together every night, or even all that often, but he did see the human on occasion outside of their nighttime activities. But he got the feeling the human felt as if his presence was unwanted, as if he was an intruder in Harry’s life. He always asked before joining him, and he never stayed for long. He was as graceful and courteous as always, but Harry got the feeling he felt unwanted. 

 

Truthfully, Harry wasn’t sure if that was true or not.

 

He couldn’t say he disliked the human’s company, but he also didn’t feel as at ease with him as he did with the elves. 

 

Despite what he had done to him— buying him, using his body for his own purposes— outside of their personal relationship, Harry could admit that the man was a good person. The more Harry learned about him, from the newspapers and from asking the elves, the more he came to think that. Not in a conventional sense, but he had a noble set of principles and had set a fair system into place when he could have called himself a dictator and ran the whole country like a tyrant. He was an advocate for equal rights across all magical creatures, for muggleborns and half-bloods and anyone who felt marginalized. He was still a dictator— his word was law, whenever he deigned to speak it— but Harry didn’t think any of the policies he had set in place seemed particularly authoritarian. He read the news daily, and had even asked for other papers aside from the  _ Daily Prophet _ to get a bigger view of things. 

 

And, well, he clearly cared for Harry. He cared for his well-being, and even beyond that. He was surprisingly attentive to Harry’s needs, making sure Harry wanted for nothing. Well, aside from his freedom. But it was clear that the man felt conflicted with his own actions in regards to Harry. 

 

Whatever reason he wanted a constant source of _ honey propolis _ for, it must be very important to him. 

 

Harry wondered if it was worth it.

 

&&

 

Harry had no idea how true his words were.

 

Voldemort had never felt so divided in his life. He thought he’d left all this behind when he’d made the decision to seize his ambitions without the use of horcruxes. He was never going to be as ethical and altruistic as that idiotic Dumbledore, but he had his own set of principles that he stuck to no matter what, that most people considered noble. 

 

He had killed before, in the name of his cause. He had started a civil war that could have lasted for decades, and ended viciously with both sides losing too much. He had decided that was worth it, if he could see his cause to fruition. And his gamble paid off. The civil war was brief; he took office with minimal bloodshed, and the people had not rioted against him. He had turned England’s sham of a democracy into a full blown dictatorship, and then turned around and implemented a system of checks and balances for the legislative and judicial branches, and even in his own cabinet to a degree. 

 

There were certainly people out there that could argue that he was a terrible monster and a mad tyrant, but it was easy to ignore that when he felt true to himself. 

 

Purchasing the fairy was the first thing he’d ever done in a long time that didn’t sit well with him. 

 

He knew it was a necessary evil. He’d convinced himself that there was no other way. And while that wasn’t exactly false, it was not the whole truth, either. The truth was; he wanted that fairy. He had been obsessed with them since a young age— they had been a lifelong fixation of his. When he realized he could both own one and gain the immortality he so coveted, there was a dark part of him that refused to entertain any other solution. He would have the fae, as he had always wanted. He had lived with the evil side of himself smothered deep inside him for so long now, refusing to act on it, but that flame had never truly gone out. It lingered in his soul like a blemish, a whisper of what could have been, had he given in to it. It was the madness inside of him that he battled every day— usually to great effect. But not this time. This time, the darkness won out. He would have what he had always wanted.

 

Oh, he tried to console himself. It was for the greater good (to think that he would ever take up Dumbledore’s stupid mantra) it was a necessary evil, it was all for a reason. And he made sure to treat the fae in the way he deserved. He tried to be as fair and just as possible, while still getting what he wanted. 

 

It was only once a week. It was only ten minutes. The boy had so much freedom otherwise. Not true freedom, never that, but at least he could see the sunshine. Voldemort wasn’t locking him up in the dungeons to have his way with him whenever he pleased. But that terrible part of him was wickedly aroused at the thought. It was the same part that urged him to take the boy, truly take him, when he was already wet and open and so ready for it. It would feel so wonderful, he was sure, to plunge into that tight wet heat. He dreamed of it, constantly. The boy was so young, it was sick, terrible and dirty to think such things of someone who was basically still a child— but he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop his own desires in the same way he couldn’t stop his dreams from manifesting into all sorts of lustful scenarios. 

 

But despite his darker desires, he refrained.

 

Things were going well. His efforts to forge alliances with the many magical creatures on the mainland were going well. And his fairy gave no protest when Voldemort crawled into his bed at night every week, and even seemed okay with his company in the daylight. Voldemort always made sure not to overstay his welcome, to keep his visits short and timely, lest he fall from the fairy’s good graces. He still had no idea why the fairy even humored him at all. Their night time visits were non-negotiable, that was true, but he was more than within his rights to shove Voldemort away from him at any other time. And yet, he seemed calm and tranquil in Voldemort’s presence, never seeming all that irritated with this irksome human hanging around him. 

 

When he thought of it that way, things were going better than he ever could have expected. 

 

He wouldn’t dare to ruin that by pushing for any more than this. No matter what sinful and immoral desires he may have, he refused to act on them. 

 

&&

 

They have a routine, he thinks. 

 

And more than just the one in the bedroom. They eat supper together, if the Dark Lord can manage a few hours of spare time. He is not home often, but when he is he likes to seek out the fairy, if the boy is still awake. He knows his presence is wholly uninvited, but he cannot help the longing to simply bask in the fairy’s presence, content to merely watch and observe the boy. 

 

It is late afternoon, and surprisingly Voldemort has a few hours at his disposal. 

 

Before all this, he would have either pulled out one of his endless side projects, or perhaps gone to visit Atargatis. Spare time seemed useless to him, back then. There was always so much to do, and never any time to do it. He couldn’t bear the thought of wasting a second. Anyone with eyes could see it was an easy way to burn yourself out, but he soldiered on anyhow. He should have suffered some kind of illness from all the stress he put on himself, but dark rituals and a steady diet of propolis kept him going. 

 

Those terrible dark rituals he had done all those years ago, to strengthen his body beyond a normal human’s capabilities, to stretch his lifespan longer than it should ever go, they could only go so far. But honey propolis was the closest one could get to the  _ elixir of life  _ without actually having to give one’s life up to it’s terrible fate. Of course, the  _ elixir of life  _ indeed lasted a lifetime, if one could even call such an existence life, and honey propolis was merely a temporary but powerful cure. But it had none of the adverse side effects other methods of immortality had, and Voldemort was not for want of money. He was more than willing to shell out hundreds of galleons in order to obtain a steady supply of honey propolis on the black market. 

 

In a way, it was both wholly sustainable and yet clearly unsustainable. Honey propolis was notoriously difficult to get a hold of after all, and it seemed absurd to think Voldemort could rely on the method forever. 

 

And even now, owning a fae as he did, he had to wonder if he could keep this up indefinitely. 

 

The boy was immortal, and as long as Voldemort drank from him, so was he. What was the problem? And yet, he was so fragile in constitution. There were so many ways for his fairy to be taken away from him; be that illness, malaise, depression, stress…

 

Fairies were not meant to be kept in captivity like this. Certainly not for the entirety of their lives. It was no small wonder they were notoriously difficult to keep alive in captivity, to the point wizards had come up with all sorts of elaborate ways to all but drug them insensible to the world. If they didn’t, the fairy would eventually succumb to its misery in one way or another. Voldemort couldn’t think of a more terrible way to die. And he couldn’t think of anything worse than so thoroughly abusing and destroying such a pure and wonderful creature that it no longer has the will to live. 

 

No matter how gilded and luxurious a palace it may be, this place was still a cage. 

 

His fairy might seem alright for now, but he couldn’t imagine he would be okay like this forever. One day he would realize just how trapped he was, and then Voldemort would be left with two choices. Either leave him in his misery, or begin his potions once again. 

 

He didn’t want to drug the boy. He didn’t want this wondrous creature to be reduced to nothing but an incoherent shell. 

 

So he watched, and observed, with a small but continuous thread of anxiety, just waiting for a sign. He would give the boy whatever he wanted, everything and anything at all— but just not his freedom. 

 

He might be distracted currently with rich foods, endless books to read and other such luxuries, but the splendor would leave soon, leaving nothing but the bare truth.

 

He returns that afternoon to find the fairy is, as usual, not in his rooms. Unsurprisingly his elves inform him that the boy is outdoors. At the very least, he can give the fairy this. It might not be much, but here at least the sun is shining and the sky is open and blue, and maybe for a moment the fairy can believe that he is free. 

 

He walks out to find twilight has set in wonderfully amongst the fireflies. A lazy orange glow paints across the foliage, a burning tableau reflecting on the pond’s smooth surface. He doesn’t see the boy, at first, as lost in the wilds as he is. 

 

Voldemort finally finds him as he rounds the pavillion, crouched in the dirt. At first he doesn’t understand what he is doing there, but then he sees the boy gently cupping dirt in his hands, patting it down in a small mound. 

 

He notices Voldemort almost immediately, dropping the dirt in his hands like hot coal, standing up and whirling around to face him, a guilty expression on his face. 

 

There’s a pop from next to him, and then one of his elves is looking at him with an equally guilty face. 

 

“We’s is so sorry, Master!” The elf cries, it’s fear making it forget it’s grammar. “We’s be tending the garden, even though Master said not to touch it…”

 

Voldemort blinks. Had he said that? Perhaps, back in the first few days after he had purchased the manor. The elves were all set to do all sorts of things, with his instruction, but back then he couldn’t have cared less. And he certainly hadn’t wanted them wasting their time on an overgrown garden. And anyway, none of the elves that had been gifted to him were gardening elves, and he saw no reason to change that. 

 

“I don’t mind.” He assures the both of them. Then he looks at the fae, who is still staring at him with wariness. “In fact, I insist. Do whatever you like with the gardens— the elves can procure whatever necessities you might need in the endeavor.”

 

The fairy blinks, surprise shattering his usual impassivity. 

 

Then he turns to the elf by the boy’s side. “You are to assist him whenever you are not tending to your other duties.” He commands the thing, to it’s utter delight. “And from this day forward I appoint you as the gardner elf.”

 

The elf’s eyes shine with unshed tears of joy. Honestly. He doesn’t understand why the things are so prone to tears. “Yes! Blue will do her best! Blue will not let Master down!”

 

He nods, not particularly concerned over it. Having one of his elves double as a gardening elf will be useful in the long run. He had never bothered, mainly because he didn’t want to have to go through the trouble of purchasing an elf that was already used to gardening, or having to train one of the ones he currently had. At any rate the problem had solved itself; the fairy most likely knew how to garden, and he could teach the elf. They could turn the garden entirely upside down for all he cared about it. 

 

And anyway, it is  _ well  _ worth it to look up and see the small smile playing on the boy’s face, looking positively enchanting in the dying light. 

 

Perhaps with this, he can keep the boy as he is, if only for just a little while longer. 

 

&&

 

It’s an unfortunate reality of his life that good things are not meant to last.

 

He has barely made it through half his allotted stack of paperwork for the day, and it’s already nearing eight in the evening. He missed dinner with his fairy, and would miss their eight o’clock… ‘appointment’. He's already had to reschedule it twice; the French Minister was in town with many other French emissaries, so his calendar had been hectic as of late. He supposes he’ll just have to reschedule again and ask the fairy if it was alright to do it tomorrow. All the same, he is furious and annoyed to be stuck here like this, in a way he never has been before. But back then, he had nowhere to rush back to. He had nowhere else he’d rather be. 

 

Now though, he did. 

 

Over the weeks, he had begun to enjoy, and perhaps even crave, the fairy’s company. It had nothing to do with the boy’s propolis; he truly enjoyed the fairy’s company, no matter what they were doing. He was always a quiet, but very solid presence. Voldemort had come to enjoy the boy’s silence; he knew the boy was present, even if he didn’t have to do anything to acknowledge it. There was no draining small talk as there was whenever he had to be in the company of others; they could sit in silence, each with their own thoughts, and simply enjoy the warm evening next to each other. 

 

He couldn’t say for sure whether the fairy enjoyed those evenings, per say, but he did not seem outwardly distressed with them either. Still though, he tried to keep them short. He was very careful to never upset the fae, and it seemed to be working. 

 

Perhaps all his concern over the boy’s distress and mental health was unwarranted. 

 

A pop from beside him gets his attention.

 

It is Blue, one of his house elves. She looks frightened and anxious, wringing her skirt in her hands. “Master…” She says, sounding scared. “Master, there is a problem.”

 

His elves would only get so worked up over one thing. He charms the door to his office shut, and casts a muffling charm just in case. Then he turns to her. “What happened?” He asks, urgently. 

 

“It’s young master,” she reveals, tearfully, as he had suspected. “He is not waking.”

 

“Not waking?” Voldemort repeats, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

 

“Young master has not been feeling well.” She explains, to his growing concern. “He has been napping all day. He has been tired lately, but not like this! Oh, and Blue didn’t think anything of it.” The elf begins to cry. “B— But when Blue came to bring dinner tonight, this time he would not wake up. His forehead is very hot, and the young master is sweating. Blue thinks he’s ill.”

 

His alarm only grows. This was not good. 

 

“Thank you for telling me, Blue.” He tells her. “Please return to the mansion and watch over him. I will be there shortly.” 

 

His house elf nods tearfully, before disappearing. He unlocks his office and goes to find Lucius, telling his secretary to forward everything to his Undersecretary. After informing his subordinate of his departure, he heads straight for home. 

 

When he gets to the boy’s chambers, he finds his house elf was telling the truth. They’re all there, even down to his usually antisocial kitchen elves, anxiously waiting by the wall. He’d be amused at the similarities to Snow White and her dwarves once again if he wasn’t so concerned. When he reaches over to feel the boy’s temperature, the skin he meets is scalding hot. 

 

It’s then that he realizes he can’t help the boy.

 

He has no knowledge of fae physiology. A human would have died if they were at such a high temperature, but the fairy lives on. He doesn’t know what it means. Is it a fever? Do fevers act the same in fae as they do in humans? The body raises its temperature to kill off infectious bacteria that can’t survive at the higher heat. But that’s not the case with all creatures. Centaurs must be kept cool when in their natural feverish healing state, otherwise they will perish at such high temperatures. Are the fae the same? Or is it the exact opposite, with the fae needing to preserve the heat as opposed to dispelling it? He has no idea. If he tries to help he might just end up making the situation all the worse. 

 

He thinks furiously on whom he could call. No ordinary healer could help him here. 

 

His first thought is of Atargatis. The mermaid might know of someone. But that thought leads him to the first vision Atargatis had sent him on— a trail traipsing through the Balkan countryside in search of a mythical vampire clan. After tracking their trail through the Albanian wilderness, his search led him to a citadel just outside Belgrade, in Serbia. The vampires were hostile until he handed them the golden comb Atargatis had given him. 

 

It had belonged to the vampire queen who had founded this coven, but had been lost when it was stolen away and the boat had disappeared into the Mediterranean, never to be seen again. 

 

They were significantly less hostile after that. They didn’t pledge their allegiance to him persay, but swore to help him when the time came for them to act. The Dark Lord had every intention of conquering far more than just Britain, and alliances like theirs would go a long way in seeing those plans come to fruition. Over the years he had only nurtured that relationship. 

 

At any rate, his first thought is of the vampire who had healed him. The Balkan wilderness was full of terrible and poisonous creatures, and the man had seen to his wounds and whatever poisons were still lingering in his blood. Voldemort remembered being impressed by the vampire’s vast knowledge and wisdom. His knowledge was unsurprising though, given his age. Vampires were immortal, but required blood as sustenance and grew weak in the sunlight. If it wasn’t for that, he would have asked them to turn him right then and there. But being immortal gave the vampire centuries to hone his craft as a healer; he had healed all sorts of mythical creatures and legendary warriors throughout his tenure. Unfortunately Voldemort could not stay to hear all of his fascinating tales, but he had not forgotten the old vampire healer. While under his care, he had told him in passing  stories of the high elves— he had seemed to know them quite well. 

 

He didn’t know anyone else to turn to; he would simply have to hope that the vampire would know what to do and would be willing to help him. 

 

He knew it was a gamble. He knew exactly what he would be losing if he did this. He could lose it all, really. Once the vampires found out he was holding a fae captive, it would only be a matter of time until his other allies found out as well. It would be all over, then. 

 

He looked down at the young boy, breathing rapidly, flushed with fever.

 

It was a risk he was willing to take.  

 

He told his house elves to continue to keep watch over the boy, as he stalked towards the floo.

 

&&

4.

 

Harry doesn’t remember how he got here. 

 

He remembers waking up that morning and feeling a bit under the weather. He’d been unnaturally tired these last few days, but not like this. He was prone to sickness often as a child, but grew out of it, probably out of pure necessity. If his mother had to constantly stop to take care of an ill child, they would never have lasted as long as they did. At any rate its been a while, but he still remembers the sensation. More often than not he would awake in their tent to the sound of rain, and the bitter wind of the outdoors, the cold and the wetness causing him to catch a bad bug. It was a modest thing  by magical standards; big enough to house two small beds, dressers, a table and a sole bookshelf that his mother made a valiant effort to keep stocked. 

 

But those days he had a threadbare blanket and whatever kind of medicinal herbs his mother could scavenge up. 

 

This time he merely burrows into his delectably soft blankets, giving a contented sigh as he drifts off into his fluffy pillow. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the simple luxury of having a large bed full of comfy blankets. As for his sickness— it would probably go away on its own, but he should make an effort to keep hydrated. 

 

That’s the last coherent thought he remembers having.

 

The rest drifts in and out of the fog in his mind. Blue, asking if he was alright. Mop laying a towel on his head, leaving food on his bedside table. He was cold, terribly so, and yet he knew his skin would feel hot. It was the kind of cold he could feel in his bones. 

 

Then there is the murmur of voices. 

 

His eyes flutter open slowly, the world around him washed in the burning gold of twilight streaming in through the open windows. He recognizes one of the voices; it’s the human. Somehow, it is a reassuring sound. There’s no way the Dark Lord would ever let anything happen to him— not after the ludicrous amount he must have paid to get Harry in the first place. The Dark Lord will definitely make sure he feels better. The thought is both sad and sweet. 

 

He feels a hand against his forehead. It is blessedly warm. Somehow, he recognizes it as the human’s. 

 

“He’s cold,” another voice says, heavily accented. It sounds Eastern European, although he wouldn’t be able to say from where.

 

“He’s burning up.” The Dark Lord protests. “He’s got to be at least fifty degrees.” 

 

There’s a vague hum of interest. “He should be much higher than that. Get him out of there. Do you have a healer’s room here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. Show me where.” The voice commands. “And bring the boy as well.”

 

Harry is lifted out of his warm nest, much to his displeasure. He makes a mewl of protest, pawing weakly at the arms removing him. 

 

“I’m sorry,” the human apologizes gently, “but you’ve got to move.”

 

“Carry him,” the unfamiliar voice suggests, sounding farther away now. “Your body heat will be good for him.”

 

Harry is decidedly displeased, but his annoyance peters out when he’s wrapped in a blanket and hauled against a furnace. It’s not a furnace, of course. It’s the human, but when he rests his head against the man’s chest the warmth is so soothing. 

 

Voldemort looks down at the boy in his arms, reminded of the first time he met the fairy, and he carried him out of the building in a similar manner. It was strange what a few months difference could do to change his perspective. Back then he had been worried for the boy’s health, but mostly from an investment standpoint. He didn’t want to lose the fae when he had just gotten him. Now though, he was just worried for him, in general. He felt so small and light in his arms. He  _ knew  _ the boy had been eating properly; why was he still so small? 

 

“It could be lingering childhood malnourishment,” Dvorak mused, when he voiced the question aloud. “However, all species of fae are smaller and built lighter than humans. Their bones are also hollow. This is all meant to allow for flight.”

 

Voldemort made a noise of intrigue. 

 

Healer Dvorak had been difficult to read, when the Dark Lord had come barreling into the citadel, requesting his services. His look had turned downright frosty when Voldemort revealed he had a highland fae in his care, and the Dark Lord wasn’t surprised to see it. A human, keeping a fae? It was all too easy to draw the obvious conclusion. Worse; he wasn’t wrong. All the same he agreed to help— it had been an extremely long time since he had encountered one of their kind, and it would be a wonderful blessing to see another in his endless lifetime. 

 

Dvorak confirmed that he had, in his many centuries of life, treated a highland fae or two, and even the high elves, long ago. Voldemort didn’t think there was anyone more qualified to treat the boy. He would endure whatever tongue-lashing the vampire had in mind for him, and any other consequence that may come about from the vampire clans finding out he had been hiding a fae in captivity. It was well worth it, to make sure the boy was alright. 

 

It would likely cost him his alliance with the vampires, and maybe even other creatures, if they spread the news of the Dark Lord’s duplicity. 

 

He looks down at the boy in his arms. He’s resting his head on Voldemort’s chest, one hand wiggling out of the blankets to place itself over his heart. He wonders if it was a gesture of some kind, or if the boy was just that cold. 

 

When they arrive in the healing chambers, Dvorak immediately gestures for the bed, using its ingrained magic to heat it up appropriately. Then he rushed into the adjacent room, a vast chamber of shelves lined with enough potions ingredients to make a master potioneer weep in joy. It was Voldemort’s personal stock, and he knew the vampire wouldn’t find it lacking. He returned in a timely fashion, carrying his ingredients to the nearby potions worktable, heating the cauldron and then moving over towards the alchemy lab. 

 

Voldemort watches him work with trepidation. “What is it? Do you know what he has?” He asks urgently, alarmed with the wide array of ingredients. 

 

Troll fat to restore magic, juniper berries to bind the stomach, moth wings to… slow his heart? He can’t help but wonder what the vampire is making. 

 

“Yes.” The vampire answers curtly. “Has the boy been in contact with Veela lately?”

 

Voldemort frowns. The fairy cannot leave the house. He most certainly has not. Then realization dawns. The boy hadn’t met any Veela, but Voldemort certainly had. An envoy of French Veela had arrived with the Minister of France earlier that week. He had been spending quite a bit of time with them, often having dinners with them, not just from a diplomatic standpoint but also an academic one. He was forever fascinated and thrilled to meet different magical creatures. 

 

“No he has not.” Voldemort returns. “But I have. Is it possible I could have transferred it?”

 

“Yes.” The healer confirms grimly. 

 

Voldemort frowns. “I haven’t felt sick.” He protests.

 

“This is called the Hargraven’s Disease, named such since it tends to spread prolifically among winged creatures. However, it is actually a virus that can only live in descendents of the high elves.” The vampire explains. “You would not be infected, but you can carry it on you. If you were then in contact with the fairy, he could have easily contracted it. It’s very contagious. There are many descendants of the high elves, and interestingly enough they all do tend to have manifested wings as an evolutionary trait of some kind…”

 

It’s clear the vampire is well-studied on the subject. Oh, how Voldemort would have loved to pick his brain. But he had lost his chance; he doubted any of the vampires would ever speak to him again, now that they knew what he had done. He had gone against the promise he had sworn to them, gone against one of the core tenants of his beliefs in equality. He had proven himself to be just as terrible and despicable as the rest of wizarding kind. 

 

He withholds a sigh. No use lamenting over a spilt potion. “Is it deadly?”

 

“Oh, very much so.” Dvorak reveals, to the Dark Lord’s horror. “Fortunately we caught it extremely early— most of the more fatal symptoms haven’t even started to manifest.” 

 

He leans over the alchemy lab, pulverising something before running it through a filter and then dumping it into the cauldron. Once he’s finished that, he continues; “A good thing too. It would have been truly unfortunate if the boy lost his wings to this terrible disease…”

 

It was terrible to even think it. Not that he’d ever see them, or get the chance to, but even the thought of somehow mangling this beautiful creature’s wings, through disease or abuse, sat poorly with him. Even the mere idea of the fairy falling to any disease or taking ill at all did not sit well with him. 

 

“He will recover his full health, then?” The Dark Lord clarifies.

 

“Yes, he should. I’ll need to keep him warm as I finish up this potion. It’s quite potent, he needn’t take more than one dose. After that, it will be a surprisingly speedy recovery, considering the lengths this disease can go to.”

 

This piques his interest, as a thought occurs to him. “How long does the illness usually take?”

 

“It’s normally fatal if left untreated, and will cause irreparable harm in the young, who, sadly,  tend to be the ones to catch it. Loss of sight, organ damage, wing damage; eventually the disease seizes the heart and drains the poor creature of all its magic. After that, the host is nothing more than a shell. That being said it’s a long and terrible process. Even for those who do manage to recover, often the damage wrought on them is lifelong, and they die of complications later.” Dvorak rambles on, in a way Voldemort remembers quite fondly from his tenure in the recovery wing of the citadel. The vampire would make an excellent professor. And the art of alchemy is something that should be celebrated and taught prolifically, not hidden away and considered dark as it is now. “The elves had found a cure, after battling it for centuries. Sometimes I wonder just how much of their extinction was caused by this terrible illness. That it still lingers in their descendants today speaks volumes on its virility, unfortunately.” 

 

“If he only needs a small dose, would you mind if I took some?” He elaborates when the vampire looks at him curiously; “It is likely that whatever Veela passed the virus on to me has most likely contracted it. If possible, I would like to help them.”

 

The vampire sizes him up with an indecipherable expression. Voldemort can tell the vampire is still furious with him, despite his usual ramblings. “I can make additional doses.” He says, voice carefully neutral.

 

The Dark Lord nods. “I can see I am of little use here,” the British Minister of Magic observes, equally as inscrutable. “I will return to the office for now. Have one of my elves alert me when he wakes.” 

 

Dvorak merely nods curtly, turning back to his potion.

 

The Dark Lord pauses for a moment. “And— thank you, for your services.”

 

The vampire is silent for a brief time. Then he turns away. “I’m not doing it for you.”

 

That much is obvious. The Dark Lord accepts it as an answer, and disappears with a soft pop. 

 

&&

 

He has a feeling Dvorak has no intention of alerting him when the boy wakes, but fortunately his house elves are as unfailingly dedicated as usual, and have been watching and reporting to him with hourly updates. 

 

Around two or three in the morning, they report that his fever has broken and his temperature has returned to normal. At four, they report that his heart rate has returned as well. At five, he is showing signs of waking. 

 

Finally, at dawn, the Dark Lord stops his crusade against his paperwork, and returns to check on the boy himself. 

 

His position hasn’t changed much, but from the lack of flush on his cheeks he can tell his condition is much better. He has also been changed into a breathable robe, and the thick blankets have been changed to a thin sheet. Dvorak is hovering over the boy, and when Voldemort arrives he looks up with a livid expression.

 

“You  _ monster. _ ” The vampire hisses, and the irony of a vampire calling him that would have been amusing if it hadn’t been true. 

 

The ancient vampire rounds fully to face him at that, with an expression of pure fury Voldemort wouldn’t have expected from the old man. It was saddening, in a way, to see someone he thought so highly of looking at him with such disgust. It made him feel like the disgraceful and dirty orphan he used to be. The orphan he still is, he supposes.

 

“He cannot be any older than thirteen, and you are abusing him like this.” The vampire says with disgust. How did he know? And, to Voldemort’s surprised expression; “I saw the marks.”

 

Ah. He must have gripped the boy too harshly the last time he had… drank from him. When his expression remains unchanged, the vampire elaborates, “The ones on his hips? They look an awful lot like fingers to me.”

 

The Dark Lord says nothing in response to the accusations he is making. They’re all true, at any rate.  

 

The vampire sneers at him. “You won’t even deny it. You sick bastard.” He shakes his head then, with fury and disbelief. “I truly thought better of you, you know? Even after you said you had a highland fae, I was suspicious but didn’t truly think you would be capable of it. I thought you were unlike others of your kind. And now I see you really are the worst of the lot— raping an innocent child like this, holding him captive for your sick desires.”

 

It sounds terrible when he says it, but it is the bare and disturbing truth of it all. 

 

Dvorak takes his silence poorly. “Do you truly have nothing to say for yourself?”

 

“I will not deny the truth.” The Dark Lord replies, calmly. 

 

His calmness clearly only infuriates the vampire more. “I should kill you where you stand.” The vampire seethes. “But you don’t deserve such a swift death.”

 

He tenses at that. He has no intention of hurting the vampire, but if it is a matter of life or death he will not hesitate to do so. 

 

“The vampire lord will hear of this.” Dvorak swears, darkly. “I will make sure of it. And so will the veela societies, the goblins, the giants and the werewolves. Not a single magical creature will pledge to you now.”

 

He had assumed as much, as a worst case scenario. It would be a terrible blow to his forces, to lose such painstakingly forged alliances, but it was worth it. Had the boy died of this illness, purely because Voldemort did not want his terrible secret to come to light… he didn’t think he could live with himself, knowing he was responsible for the death of one of the last of these pure and beautiful creatures. It was a price he was willing to pay. 

 

_ Perhaps this is what Atargatis had seen for me,  _ he thinks, grimly. A bitter end to a terrible man.

 

“I should take the fairy with me as well, but you undoubtedly have him chained and bound here by all manner of spells.” The vampire’s lip curled. “But rest assured I will not stop trying to free him for the rest of my immortal life— 

 

Dvorak stops short mid sentence. 

 

A hand is clutching his wrist from behind him. The vampire whirls around, and they both look in shock to see that the boy is awake. How long had he been awake for? Voldemort supposes it doesn’t matter whether the boy heard the conversation or not; none of it would be of surprise to him. 

 

He supposes the fairy is probably begging the vampire to take him with him. It wouldn’t surprise Voldemort in the least. He expects it, honestly.

 

But then, the boy does something completely unexpected.

 

He  _ talks. _

 

_ “Please don’t.” _

 

His voice is small and threadbare, barely above a whisper— but it is  _ beautiful _ . 

 

Both the vampire and the Dark Lord stare at the boy in shock. It takes a moment for it to sink in, and then Voldemort comprehends that he has no idea what the boy had spoken. But it was the most exquisite tongue he had ever heard.  _ Elvish _ , he realizes. It must be elvish. The mother tongue of all the many magical creatures that share this impressive ancestor. It is a sound that has a beauty beyond words, beyond any poem or any piece of music ever created. 

 

Dvorak stares at the young fae in shock. He takes a breath.  _ “You don’t know what you’re saying,”  _ he says, gently, in a tongue he hasn’t used in centuries. His elvish is not nearly as beautiful or fluent as the fairy’s, but at the very least it's serviceable. _ “This man has tricked you.” _

 

The fae frowns deeply.  _ “He hasn’t tricked me into anything.”  _ He refutes, candidly.  _ “And he’s not holding me against my will— I could leave at any time.” _

 

The vampire gives him a skeptical look at that.

 

_ “I have full access to all of my magic. I could rip through these wards easily if I wanted to.”  _ Harry insists.

 

The old vampire blinks.  _ “But you don’t want to do so?” _

 

Harry shakes his head.  _ “You don’t understand,”  _ he finds himself saying, to his own disbelief. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing right now. He doesn’t understand why he’s even bothering to stand up for the human.

 

Everything the vampire had accused him of was true. That was, in essence, what he was doing to Harry. And yet, it  _ wasn’t.  _ Or rather, there was more to the situation than that, and more to the man than just a monster, and he unfathomably felt the need to clarify that to the vampire. Much like with the man’s house elves, Harry just couldn’t find it in him to ruin the man’s reputation with creatures— or in this case, to let it be ruined without doing anything to rectify it. Maybe it was because the human was trying to genuinely do something good in the world, something even Harry believed in, and he knew how important these alliances were in seeing that dream come to fruition. Maybe it was because he believed that the human really did hold the utmost respect for all creatures, and didn’t want his singular experience to tarnish that. Or maybe he truly believed that the vampire’s accusations were wrong. He didn’t know. Likely it was a combination of all of it. 

 

Harry takes a deep breath, before beginning his story;  _ “I’ve spent my whole life running from wizards. When my mother was killed by them, I was captured and held in captivity. It was… terrible.”  _ He shudders as the emotional weight of his words makes his hands start to shake. The vampire looks at him with sympathy, but he soldiers on;  _ “The Dark Lord isn’t holding me against my will. I enjoy being here. I have friends here, and a wonderful room and all the food and luxuries I could possibly ask for. It’s more than I ever could have dreamed of.” _

 

The vampire digests this all with a thoughtful frown. Then it grows deeper.  _ “That still does not negate the fact that he is sexually abusing you.”  _

 

Harry isn’t entirely sure if he would call it that, but he doesn’t really know how else to describe it. But, despite the sexual nature of the act, that’s not at all the reason why the human does it. 

 

_ “He’s only doing it to harvest my nectar. It seems only fair that I give something back in return for all that he’s done for me.”  _ Harry shrugs. It clearly does nothing to change the vampire’s appalled opinion, so he adds;  _ “He offered to use a magical siphon, but I refused. I have… bad memories of such devices, and I prefer if he takes it naturally.”  _

 

Harry is so red in the face at that admittance that he almost feels like he has a fever again. He’s perplexed with himself when he realizes all of what he said is more or less true. That really is how he feels about the whole matter. He had spent so much time utterly refusing to even think on it that he had no idea how he actually felt about it until he said it aloud. It feels good to finally put his feelings into words.

 

The vampire still does not look convinced.  _ “You’re thirteen years old. You don’t understand how much he’s taking advantage of you.” _

 

_ “I’m fifteen, actually.”  _ Harry corrects, calmly.  _ “And I understand perfectly well. I may be young but I’m certainly not naive. I’m well aware of the horrors wizards have wrought upon my kind— and yours too. But I’m just as well aware of the state of the world, and how much we magical creatures need the Dark Lord. He’s doing so much good for all of us, don’t you see? Please don’t ruin that.” _

 

This seems to crack through the vampires defenses. The old man takes a deep breath, letting it out gustily. “Very well then,” Dvorak says, this time in human tongue. “The fairy has spoken on your behalf. I won’t tell the Vampire Lord of what I saw here. But in return I want to be the fairy’s primary healer. I’m the most qualified person in the entire world I daresay, and I want to keep an eye on him. And  _ you. _ ” He adds, eyes narrowed.

 

Voldemort stares at the vampire in stunned disbelief.

 

Mere minutes ago the vampire was ready to bring the roof down on him, and now he is… agreeing to drop the matter? He stares in wonder at the fairy sitting up in the bed. What in Merlin’s name did he say to the vampire? 

 

The boy is studiously not meeting his eyes. 

 

He has enough presence of mind to nod at the vampire. “Yes, of course.” He manages to say, still in a state of disbelief. 

 

Dvorak nods back, grim. Then he turns to the boy.  _ “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask for me. The house elves will know how to floo call the citadel.” _

 

Harry nods, offering up what could be considered a tiny, almost invisible smile.  _ “Yes, I will.”  _

 

The vampire walks up to the Dark Lord, depositing the rest of the potion into his hands. “Well then, I suppose my work here is done.”

 

“I’ll walk you to the floo,” the man insists, when he realizes Dvorak will most likely not know where it is. 

 

“No need,” the vampire waves him off. “I think I remember where it is. I can have a house elf guide me, if need be. Stay with the fairy— and make sure he doesn’t do anything too strenuous, you hear? He’s still recovering.”

 

&&

 

Voldemort is sure to follow the vampire’s word, refusing to even allow the boy to walk on his own. He thinks the boy might protest, but instead he stays silent.

 

_ Back to mute again, hm? _ Voldemort thinks, amused. 

 

That’s alright. He knows now that the boy is capable of it— but he won’t rush him. Still though, it would be nice to get to know him, at least a little bit. It occurred to him over the duration of Dvorak’s brief stay that he didn’t even have a name to give the healer. He didn’t even know the boy’s name. Surely he had one, if he can read and write and speak elvish, of all things. Voldemort pauses. Can the boy speak English? He can understand it, clearly.

 

When they arrive in the boy’s rooms he gently settles the young fairy on the bed. The fairy watches him with big, viridian eyes as he tucks the covers around him. 

 

“So much for being mute, huh?” He can’t help but say, cheekily, watching the boy blush and look away. “It’s alright. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. Although I can’t help but be curious about what you two spoke of, to change his mind.”

 

Harry bites his lip, warring internally with himself. 

 

Finally, he opens his mouth. “I didn’t tell him anything but the truth.” 

 

His voice in human tongue is just as lovely as it is in elvish. This is the first time he’s ever heard the boy speak, and understood it. This is the first time the boy has ever spoken,  _ to him. _ His breath tightens. He realizes faintly that the boy has a bit of an accent. It’s not one he’s ever heard before— he thinks it might be the elvish accent. Could it be possible that this boy had grown up speaking only the tongue of the elves? What is he saying, of course it’s possible. It’s probable, even. 

 

He’s so surprised that the boy actually responded that he loses his train of thought. “Well, whatever the case, it worked. You saved me an important alliance with the oldest vampire clan in the world. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

 

Harry doesn’t know how to feel at that. The man is so sincere, it makes his chest hurt. He wishes he could hate this human as easily as the vampire had, but he can’t. 

 

“It was nothing, really.” Harry dismisses the gratitude, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “A— Anyway, you saved  _ me  _ from certain death. I think we can call us even.”

 

The man stares at him for a moment, and then begins to laugh. Harry watches him with amazement. He was actually even smiling. He had always been a handsome man, but the simple movement seems to transform his entire face into something beyond that. Harry actually feels himself blush, it is so appealing a sight. 

 

“Yes, I suppose we can.” The man agrees lightly, before sitting up straighter.

 

He watches Harry carefully. Harry devotes his attention to fastidiously fixing the ends of his many layers of blankets. 

 

“Is it really alright with you?” The man asks, softly. 

 

“I— Is what?” Harry stutters in response, nervous. He has a feeling he knows where this is going. 

 

“When I drink from you. You’re alright with that?”

 

What response is he supposed to give, really? It’s not as if he has a choice in the matter. The man will take it from him whether he’s alright with it or not. He could just throw the question back in the man’s face with that, and let that be the end of it. And yet, this man risked an alliance with an entire people for Harry, and saved him from death. He knows he doesn't owe the man anything, but he can at least give a proper answer.

 

Harry closes his eyes and burrows into the blankets, blushing furiously. “It’s fine.” He says, the blush staining his cheeks growing with impressive fervor. “It doesn’t bother me.”

 

The man looks conflicted with that answer. Then he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that is so unguarded Harry is happy he opened his eyes in time to see it. The Dark Lord is never anything but perfectly poised and put together. Even when a vampire is threatening to kill him in his own home. To see him anything less than that is… fascinating. 

 

“Still though, to think that you’re only thirteen…” The man trails off with a pinched expression.

 

“I’m fifteen, actually.” Harry corrects, primly. He’s just small for his age, okay? Even by fae standards. 

 

The man scoffs. “Like that’s any better.” He shakes his head. There’s a long pause. “I don’t even know your name.” He laments quietly, almost wistfully. Harry isn’t sure what to make of it. 

 

Harry stares up at him with big eyes. His heart stutters. “Harry,” he manages to say, breathlessly. The man looks completely taken off guard by his admission. “My name is Harry.”

 

“Harry,” he repeats, grinning unabashedly once he recovers himself. It’s such a foreign sight on the normally reserved human. Foreign, but still nice. “It’s a beautiful name.” He says, to Harry’s incredulity. 

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like his name, but he wouldn’t call it spectacular or anything. Certainly not beautiful.

 

He frowns. “... What about yours?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know why he even bothers; it’s not as if Harry doesn’t already know it. Lord Voldemort is all over the newspapers, nor matter which one he chooses that day. Still, it seems proper to ask, if they’re finally going through some belated introductions. 

 

The man looks so taken aback, he doesn’t reply for a long moment. He seems to be weighing his options carefully. “Tom,” he replies, at great length. 

 

Harry blinks. Tom. That… wasn’t what he had expected. 

 

“...It’s nice to meet you, Tom.” He replies, barely above a whisper.

 

Tom stares for a moment. Then he smiles, and it is perhaps a bit sad. “It’s nice to meet you too, Harry.”

 

He reaches out, as if to touch him, but retracts his hand before it can get very far. “I’m sure you’re still quite tired after such an ordeal. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

 

Harry wants to point out that the man looks just as tired as he is, if not more so, but doesn’t know if it’s really his place to say so. In the end he opts for his familiar answer of silence, nodding as he burrows deeper into his covers. He waits until he hears the door click shut to resurface, flushed all the way from his neck to his ears. 

 

By Merlin… what is he  _ doing _ ?

 

&&

 

Voldemort is asking himself the same question.

 

He told the boy his name. His real name. It seemed fitting in the moment, but afterwards in the unforgivingly harsh light of high noon he has to wonder why he did it. He hasn’t used his disgusting muggle name in ages. With the exception of the abominable Dumbledore, anyone who knew him from before he started going by Voldemort is polite enough not to mention it. 

 

He’s fairly sure he’s gone somewhat hysterical in the last few hours. Can anyone really blame him, though? He hasn’t slept in days, and had to live under the stress and anxiety of thinking his entire life’s work might crumble into nothing in a matter of hours. Perhaps he had gone a bit hysterical in relief when that proved not to be the case. 

 

In regards to the fairy, he is feeling more conflicted than usual.

 

No, he’s not just a fairy anymore. He’s  _ Harry.  _ A young, fifteen year-old boy who’s much wiser beyond his years, with his own thoughts and feelings. Thoughts and feelings that Voldemort cannot seem to comprehend. 

 

Whatever the boy had said to Dvorak— ‘the truth’ or so he claims— was enough to save an alliance Voldemort had spent decades solidifying. When he stops to think about the reality of that situation, of all of his alliances with magical creatures crumbling apart, he is humbled by how close he came to ruin. He could lie to himself all he liked, but if he truly wanted to take over the entirety of Wizarding Europe, those alliances would be the key to his success and he knew it. The boy—  _ Harry—  _ had effectively saved his dreams and aspirations from turning into dust. And he’s still not exactly sure why. 

 

Why would the boy do that? Why bother to save him? 

 

He’d told himself, that day in the garden, that he would do whatever it took to ensure the boy’s happiness. As of now he had no other means of immortality aside from the boy’s nectar, but he vowed to research the matter as soon as possible. He would spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins if he had to. 

 

He didn’t think he’d ever get the boy to actually like him— that was asking for too much— but he hoped that one day he would at least come to not despise him. 

 

But now though, he didn’t know how Harry felt.

 

He almost wanted to travel to Atargatis, and question the mermaid about all of this. He knew it would be a fruitless effort, though. Mermaids only answered when they wanted to, and he had a feeling Atargatis was going to make him figure this out on his own. 

 

Despite his weariness, the day passed quickly.

 

It had only been a few nights without sleep— he’d done much worse to himself before— but it was the hours full of anxiety and worry that truly left its mark on him. He was tired enough to pass out on the couch in his office, but that would be unseemly and unbecoming of the dictator of Britain. That being said, there was still one thing he needed to do before he called it a day and headed home.

 

He knew the French veela emissary was most likely with the French Minister attending a gala at Malfoy Manor held in their honor. They were set to leave tomorrow, so this would be his only chance. 

 

He was in absolutely no mood to tolerate a ball of any kind, so he made sure to make this brief. If anyone saw him he would undoubtedly be pulled into conversation after conversation, so he stayed in one of the Malfoy’s many sitting parlors and summoned an elf. He asked it to request Lucius bring Marion Clemente, one of the veela in attendance, and bring her here.

 

He didn’t have to wait very long. Soon enough Lucius was escorting a stunning blonde of tall stature into the room. 

 

“My Lord,” he bows. 

 

“Thank you, Lucius.” Voldemort returns. The man nodded again before taking his leave.

 

Voldemort strides up to the woman, taking the woman’s hand and kissing it, as proper. “Madame Clemente, wonderful to see you again.”

 

“You as well, Lord Voldemort.” She seems appropriately charmed by his manners. 

 

Then again, she had already expressed interest in him that fateful night at dinner, when he was sure he had contracted the virus. She had asked him to take a sip of her wine, and he found no reason to deny her. He was sure she hadn’t poisoned it, so he didn’t see the harm in indulging in her flirting. She was from a prominent veela family in France, it wouldn’t do to upset her in any way. But after that, he had gone home and used that very same mouth to… well, at any rate, it seemed like the most logical course of infection to him. 

 

“Please, sit.” He gestures to the wingback chairs in front of them. “I’m afraid I might have to ask you some rather… improper questions.”

 

A manicured brow rose. From the curl of her lips he can tell what she’s thinking. He can’t exactly blame her; she was summoned privately by the Dark Lord, the man she had been flirting with all night long at dinner a few nights ago, to meet him alone in a room far away from the party? And now, he was saying he might be,  _ ‘improper _ ’ to her? Yes, it would be very easy to misunderstand the situation. He’ll be sure to clear it up with Lucius tomorrow, lest any unseemly rumors arise. 

 

“And I’m going to have to ask you not to ask any questions in return.” He adds, sternly. 

 

The woman looks intrigued. “Very well then, my Lord.” She agreed with a nod. “Ask away.”

 

Voldemort doesn’t waste any time. “Thank you. I will try to make this as brief as possible. Have you been feeling ill lately?”

 

This is definitely not the the question she had expected, for she rears back with a frown. “...No. No I haven’t. Why do you ask?”

 

He pulls the potions bottle out of his pocket. “This is the cure for Hargraven’s Disease.” He reveals. She gasps softly. “I have reason to believe you or someone around you has become infected with the virus. This is extremely potent; ten milliliters for someone of adequate weight and height is enough.”

 

She stares down at it in wonder, looking flabbergasted by its existence. To be fair, the only person still alive to remember the elves and their cure for it is a vampire who has secluded himself in his vampire citadel for most of his life. 

 

“But how did you— “ She begins, looking utterly perplexed. Then she seems to remember herself, closing her eyes. “Right, yes. I won’t ask any questions. But you are sure this will cure it?”

 

“I am certain.”

 

She pauses. “Would you be willing to share the recipe with me? I can imagine a great deal of my people will be relieved to see an end to this wretched disease.”

 

“I do not know it personally, but I will endeavor to have it mailed to you.”

 

She clasps the glass gratefully in her hands, eyes closing again. “Thank you. Thank you, my Lord… my young sister, Stella…” For a moment, Voldemort is worried she might become overcome with emotion and leave him at a loss as to what to do, but she manages to compose herself. “I had the disease myself, but managed to recover. Unfortunately, it was not without its own complications.”

 

She sniffs sharply.  “At any rate, this will be invaluable. You have my— and all the veela of France’s, I daresay— most sincere gratitude.”

 

He feels rather disconcerted with her gratitude; he doesn’t deserve it. It’s not as if he invented the cure, he merely brought it back when it had been lost to history. And the reason he even had it in the first place was less than altruistic, what with needing it to save the fae he was holding in captivity. 

 

“You’re welcome. Use it wisely.” That seems an adequate response, and the only one she’s going to get from him.

 

He has Lucius come to return her to the party soon after that, and makes his swift departure. All in all, the event went as smoothly as he could have hoped for. He was in and out in record time, and now he could finally return home to his fae. To  _ Harry.  _

 

He knows he shouldn’t get used to the feeling, but it’s a nice feeling all the same, and one he allows himself to savor, at least for now. 

 

It’s late when he arrives at home.

 

He inquires on the state of Harry’s health with one of his elves; the boy is recovering well. He’s been sleeping most of it off, but has shown a healthy appetite and went for a walk later in the day. Despite the detailed report, he finds himself checking in on the boy nonetheless. As his elves had stated, the boy is fast asleep. 

 

Voldemort sits on the side of his bed and simply watches him for some time, just drinking in the sight of him, relieved that he is alive and well and— somehow, unimaginably— content. 

 

He realizes the error of his ways soon enough, when he blinks a few times just a hair too slowly. His eyes begin to feel tired, and before he knows it he is resting on the bed beside the boy, promising to himself that he is merely resting for a moment, and will return to his rooms soon. But it’s a lost cause and he knows it. Within moments, he is just as deeply asleep as the boy next to him.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. idk how I feel about this chapter but it was just sitting there so I figured I may as well upload it 🤷fair warning I might delete it at some point??

Harry awakes and feels a thousand times better than he had yesterday. All the drama of the day before had blinded him to how terribly he really felt, but after it was all over and he had settled into his bed, he came to realize just how awful he was feeling. His limbs ached and his body seemed to shake with the remnant memories of feverish chills. By the afternoon he felt somewhat better, and even attempted a slow walk around the gardens. 

 

Today though, he felt like his normal self again. 

 

It was sort of strange, to think he could have died. He’d never been so close to his own death before. Even when the poachers had cornered him and his mother, he knew they weren’t trying to kill them. His mother’s death had been an accident, startling both Harry and the poachers. The men began to yell at each other once they realized what had happened, trying to shift the blame off their own shoulders. In the ensuing chaos Harry managed to escape. It was his only real brush with death, and even now it still didn’t feel real. To think it might have happened to him, an immortal creature…

 

He sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes in the morning sunshine. 

 

The blankets atop him tug tightly in a way they never do. He blinks, then turns. There is a human sleeping on top of them, trapping them beneath him. And there is only one human it could possibly be, but Harry can’t fathom the man falling asleep like this. 

 

Well, upon further consideration he can admit that the man looked incredibly tired the day before. Which would explain why he was so deeply asleep, even when he was usually awake and heading to the office before Harry even opened his eyes. But that didn’t explain how he got here in the first place. 

 

_ “Mop?”  _ He calls quietly, deciding that out of all his new house elf friends, Mop is most likely to overshare on the details. 

 

Mop pops into existence beside the bed, eyes growing wide when he takes in the sight. His eyes begin to shine in what looks to be enthusiastic happiness.  _ “Oh, young master and Master are sharing a bed! Mop is so happy! Mop will not intrude, Mop will leave now— _

 

_ “No, no, wait a second!”  _ Harry hisses as quietly as possible, a blush staining his cheeks. Of course Mop would think of that first. He doesn’t even bother to correct the house elf.  _ “I wanted to ask you some questions. What time did he get in? Do you know?” _

 

Mop pauses.  _ “Mop does not know. _ ” He admits sadly.  _ “Mop was on laundry duty.”  _

 

Then he perks up.  _ “But Dusty was here! Mop will ask Dusty.” _

 

Harry tries to call out to him, but the elf has already disappeared. He reappears a few seconds later with the head of cleaning, Dusty. She has a bandana around her head and her usual no nonsense expression. It clears immediately when she catches sight of Harry, her eyes softening. 

 

_ “Young master! You appear to be feeling better.”  _ She notices, smiling. Dusty might be the hard liner of the elves, their head of cleaning and their strict teacher, but unsurprisingly she has a soft spot for their resident fairy. 

 

He smiles back.  _ “Yes, much better.” _

 

_ “You really scared us, you know.”  _ She continues, sternly.  _ “Poor Master was out of his mind with worry! Not that you can tell much with him, but I know him better than that. He didn’t sleep a wink all night long, and worked through the wee hours of the morning!”  _

 

Harry is always so humbled by how earnestly the Dark Lord’s elves seem to care for him. As far as he can tell, the man has never once been rude to them, and is as unfailingly polite with them as he is with everyone. But all the same he’s never really seen him be nice to them, either. But he supposes with the house elves, the bar isn’t exactly set all that high. All he really needed to do was allow them the basic freedoms of any normal sentient creature, teach them reading and writing, let them do as they like on their time off, and he held their devotion for life. 

 

_ This  _ is why he couldn’t just let the Dark Lord’s alliances crumble into nothing. He’s already done so much good for the creatures in England. Every day Harry reads of new exploits in the newspaper; restored rights to goblins, centaurs, and house elves. Schooling for werewolves and vampires. Fully subsidized primary schools for muggleborn children, free to everyone else as well, including creatures. It makes something wistful grow inside him every time he sees it. Harry has always wanted to go to school. He wonders, if he had been born in this era, would he have been able to in a few years time? The Dark Lord has already abolished most of the illegal trafficking; it might have been safe for him, by then. 

 

Harry shakes away his dreams. There’s no point in thinking on the impossible. 

 

_ “I’m sorry I worried you all,”  _ he apologizes, sincerely. 

 

Dusty looks like she might cry, but instead she just purses her lips and nods.  _ “It’s alright, young master. But please don’t worry us all again!” _

 

_ “Err… I’ll try not to,”  _ Harry assures, sheepishly.  _ “Dusty, could you tell me what T— I mean, um, Lord Voldemort did when he arrived home?” _

 

For some reason, he stops himself before he can say the man’s name aloud. It’s just his house elves, and it’s even a conversation in elvish, but all the same he feels it’s too private to just say like that. There must be a reason he never uses it, after all. 

 

Dusty thinks on this.  _ “Let’s see… the Master was very tired, yes he was! He went to the ball being held at Malfoy Manor, I believe. Nasty lot…”  _ Dusty’s nose shrivels in distaste, before she continues,  _ “then Master asked about you.” _

 

Harry blushes.  _ “A— About me?”  _

 

_ “Yes! Master wanted to know what young master had done during the day, and if he was feeling better. I told him everything, of course, but he still wanted to check up on you himself.” _

 

Harry looks down at the man sleeping beside him, expression contemplative. 

 

_ “But Master did not return to his room after that.”  _ Dusty finishes, blinking.  _ “I was worried he had returned to the office, but I see now that’s not the case.” _

 

_ “I see.”  _ Harry sighs heavily. So he must have just accidentally fell asleep here, then.  _ “Thank you for telling me.” _

 

Dusty nods eagerly.  _ “Of course, young master! Does young master want breakfast now?” _

 

Harry thinks on it.  _ “You can bring it now. I’ll eat it soon,”  _ he decides. That will give him enough time to shower and figure out what to do with the man. Hopefully he awakes on his own, preferably while Harry is in the shower, and leaves. 

 

Dusty and Mop both nod at that, and then disappear. Harry sighs a second time, turning to stare down at the human again, only to realize with a jolt that the man’s eyes are open.

 

Harry just stares down at him with wide eyes, feeling embarrassed for some reason, as if he’d been caught in some kind of nefarious act. 

 

“O— Oh. You’re awake…” Harry swallows thickly, once he’s recovered himself. 

 

The man merely stares up at him, squarely meeting his gaze as his expression turns thoughtful. “I didn’t know the house elves spoke elvish.” He muses aloud. “I assume that’s what that language is, at any rate. I’ve never heard it for myself, though.”

 

Harry blinks, leaning back to put some space between them. Even a millimeter of space seems like a relief right now. “Well… they are house  _ elves _ .” Harry points out, deadpan.

 

The human chuckles. “Yes. I realize that now.” He agrees with a small smile. 

 

Harry stares at it for a moment too long, and then quickly averts his gaze. 

 

“Is that the language you’re most comfortable with?” He asks, stirring Harry out of his pit of embarrassed misery.

 

Harry thinks on it. When he looks back, he and his mother almost always spoke in elvish. His mother had always felt guilty for their life on the run, taking him away from any semblance of normalcy; school, friends… There was nothing she could do about the latter, but she did her damnest to rectify the former. Harry was very well educated, although he’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t exactly a well-rounded one. His mother taught him all sorts of languages, not just human tongues but ones of other magical creatures as well. The elves were well known for their proficiency in all tongues, and their descendants were quick learners. Harry never had any trouble picking up a language. Sometimes she would speak to him only in gobbledegook just to quiz him, or whatever language they were studying at the time. But for the most part, they spoke elvish. 

 

“I guess so,” Harry answers, after a moment. “Although I am comfortable with many languages…”

 

“Is that so?” Voldemort raises a brow. He wonders if it’s even more than Voldemort himself knows. He knows quite a few. “Like what?”

 

Harry stares at him for a brief second, then answers. “Pixie, centaurian, gobbledegook, dwarvish, dragon, mer. A few dialects of troll— but I wouldn’t say I’m fully proficient in those. Or, did you mean human tongues?”

 

Voldemort blinks. “...How many human languages do you know?”

 

“English, the romance languages.” Harry replies, promptly. He looks down. “I  _ was  _ starting to learn Chinese, but…”

 

They both appear uncomfortable at the reminder of Harry’s circumstances. Fortunately the house elves have excellent timing, and breakfast appears on the table by the window. 

 

The Dark Lord turns towards it, before looking back at him with a raised brow. “Breakfast?”

 

Harry nods eagerly, mainly just to get out of this awkwardness. 

 

The man is quiet as they sit, staring at Harry carefully. “I… apologize for falling asleep here. It was unintentional, and won’t happen again.”

 

Harry looks up from where he’s buttering his toast, startled. “Oh,” he says. “That’s— it’s alright.”

 

Sure, he was startled when he awoke to find the man next to him, but it was nothing to apologize over. He wasn’t doing anything but sleeping. Harry didn’t exactly mind it. 

 

And, while the conversation doesn’t come as easily as it does with the house elves, he finds he doesn’t mind speaking to the man, either. The house elves are wonderful company, of course, but there’s only so many of them to speak to. Having someone else to talk to is kind of nice. 

 

Unfortunately though Harry isn’t exactly good at talking to people. He almost wishes the man still thought he was mute, if only to get out of feeling like he had an obligation to fill the silence. 

 

Voldemort doesn’t really mind the silence. 

 

It’s comforting, in a way, how easily they’ve both gone back to normal, despite all the revelations that have occurred so quickly in the past twenty-four hours. They had gone weeks like this, in a tentative and fragile balance, and Voldemort had assumed he would simply have to live with that tenuous truce. He was pleasantly surprised to find that wasn’t the case. He still didn’t know exactly where he stood with the boy, but he could at least take comfort in Harry’s contentedness. 

 

He wouldn’t mind if they stayed just like this. If he could repeat the morning in an infinite loop. 

 

He had been concerned when he realized he had fallen asleep in the fairy’s bed. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how many boundaries he had accidentally crossed, and how uncomfortable he probably made the boy feel. Hopefully the damage wasn’t irreparable. But as he surfaced from his deep sleep, he could hear the soft melody of a language he’d never heard before. As he grew more lucid he came to identify it as the same language from yesterday— elvish, most likely. Harry was speaking elvish; and someone was replying. 

 

He worried at first that Dvorak had returned, but after a beat he recognized the squeaky voice speaking elvish back to Harry. It was one of his house elves. Dusty, he believed was her name, unless she had decided to change it from what the Black’s had called her. She was in charge of his housekeeping. 

 

He couldn’t understand them, but from the pitch of her voice he imagined that she was worried. Harry’s voice in return was apologetic and reassuring. 

 

People often considered french to be the most beautiful of all the languages— those people had clearly never heard elvish. He’d never heard anything like it; he was fairly sure the human tongue could not create the long and lyrical vowels and soft, curling consonants. He could fall asleep like this all over again, just listening to the language. 

 

But then the house elves disappeared. Above him, Harry sighed deeply. Deep enough to elicit his curiosity, and when he opened his eyes he met startled emerald. 

 

The fairy was such an interesting, curious creature. And not in the least bit dim— if anything, he seemed to be the opposite. Speaking that many languages was fairly indicative of higher intelligence, and the Dark Lord couldn’t even begin to fathom the sort of knowledge he may have. Not to mention, the elven magic inherent in all of the high elves descendants. He could hardly imagine the depths in which such creature magic hadn’t been explored. 

 

He watches the boy pick at his breakfast, seeming surprisingly normal, despite being one of the rarest creatures on the earth. 

 

There is, of course, the telltale signs that this young boy is more than he appears. The distinctly pointed ears, for one. They are not as noticeably large as the house elves or the pixies, but obviously not human. Then there are the eyes, too bright and too big to belong to a human. There is also an uncanny grace to the fairy, something intangible that he’s never seen in any other creature. And these are only the outward signs. There were so many other unique talents, left unexplored… He supposes he could console himself with the fact he’s even been able to meet a highland fae at all, that he’s even managed to get this close to him is more than he could have hoped for. 

 

Ah, but it appears he had been staring for a moment too long.

 

Harry frowns at him, looking wary. “What?” He asks, guardedly.

 

The Dark Lord merely raises a brow. 

 

“Why…” He bites his lip, blushing. “Why do you always stare like that?”

 

The Dark Lord blinks slowly. Does the boy truly not realize how spectacular he is? Everything about him is simply amazing. 

 

“You fascinate me.” He answers, simply. 

 

It’s not the answer Harry was expecting, but then, he’s not exactly sure  _ what _ he was expecting. All the same the line of questioning is too uncomfortable for his tastes, so he drops it nonetheless. He focuses instead on his scone. His appetite has returned, but it’s slow to awaken this morning. He eats the scone anyway, still annoyed that the vampire healer thought he was thirteen. He refuses to believe he’s done growing. 

 

They spend the remainder of breakfast in silence. The Dark Lord is, predictably, called away on business. The man doesn’t seem to be able to even have a few hours to himself until his work calls him back. Harry supposes it must be difficult and time-consuming work, running a country and all. And anyway. Harry is relieved with his departure. 

 

It’s just… he doesn’t know what to do.

 

He doesn’t know how to act around the man anymore. They’d finally reached a balance of sorts, and then he had to go and open his damn mouth.

 

Harry sighs. 

 

But it’s not as if he could have just sat there and said nothing. It was the only option he could take, and he’d just have to live with the consequences of them. There was no going back now— no hiding behind his silence, pretending to be unaware of everything. 

  
  


&&

5.

&&

 

Blue thinks young master Harry is perfect for her master. 

 

He is so kind and loving and gentle, and the way the Dark Lord’s eyes light up when he catches sight of him… Blue sighs dreamily. Oh, she hopes someone will look at her like that someday. This thought makes a swelling of love and gratitude bloom in her as she remembers that she  _ can.  _ House elves are allowed to marry now, under the new creature’s rights bill passed by the Dark Lord. Finding another elf to fall in love with is a whole other matter, though. The boys in this house drive her crazy, so definitely not one of them. Maybe she’ll meet another elf at the market someday…

 

Well at any rate, Blue is extremely fond of Harry. He’s one of their own, after all, an elf as well. One of her own kind, in a romance with such a powerful and wonderful man! It sounded like one of those romance novels she tries to read at night. Her reading and writing is not nearly as good as her speaking, but Dusty says she’s getting better at it, and continuing to read is the only way to improve. 

 

She can’t wait until the two finally marry, and then Harry will most assuredly stay with them for good! Mop was overly excited over the prospect of little fairy children, and while she thought it excessive she could admit she was excited as well. Babies! It had been so long since Blue had seen one. Such sweet little things. 

 

She wants to ask the young master what he thinks of it all, but she feels too scared to do so.

 

Harry  _ is  _ the young master, after all. If she even dared to speak out of turn at her old master’s, they would have had her strung up by her ears for weeks. The great Dark Lord would never do such a thing, but Blue still felt too scared to even try. The Dark Lord was a kind and just master, but surely even he would not tolerate such rudeness. But Harry… well… he was still the young master, but he had also called her his  _ friend.  _ Blue felt herself tear up a bit at the thought. To think, young master Harry thought so highly of them to consider them friends. It was almost too much to bear. 

 

Today she is assisting the young master in the gardens, the morning pleasant and soft around them. 

 

They do this often, in the mornings and sometimes in the late evenings, after the sun has set and the moon has cooled the grounds. Young master is a snow elf— or a highland fae, as he insists on being called— and despises the heat of midday. Blue worried a lot when she heard that, but the young master assured her that it was merely a preference, and nothing serious. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle it; he just preferred not to. And now that there was a grand and opulent and much cooler indoors to lounge about it in, he saw no reason to put himself through the oppressive heat. 

 

So they gardened mostly in the late mornings, and sometimes at night. The young master was quite adept at the skill, and knew every plant by name. He was clearly quite knowledgeable on all plants, but especially magical ones. 

 

It had taken them a long time— and many helping hands from the other elves— to weed out the flower beds and cut down the overgrowth, but now young master said they had very good soil for all sorts of plants. 

 

Today they were planting Dragon’s Tongue— a plant that can be crushed up and used in all sorts of potions. It’s petals can be used to make potions that help resist fire, and its root and stem can be crushed to make potions that restore and replenish magic. Every plant young master planted was useful and interesting, and of course, aesthetically pleasant. 

 

Blue would love to spend the whole day like this, carefully attending to plants, listening to the young master’s beautiful elvish. It had been so long since she’d heard it— even the house elves don’t use the language all that often, even though they were all far more fluent in it than they were in human tongue. And his entire presence was so soothing, it made Blue feel worriless and content, just being near him. 

 

Ah,  _ this  _ is why the young master is so good for Master.

 

Master is always so terribly busy, fixing all sorts of things and attending to all sorts of problems. Blue understands that Master is powerful and amazing and extremely important, but still Blue worries. Even the most powerful and amazing wizard in the world must sleep sometime! 

 

But with the young master, the Master stops his endless working, if only for a few hours. And it’s clear the young master calms him down, that his serene and tranquil aura helps to soothe Master as well. 

 

They are so obviously good for each other. But Blue worries. She is very observant, and she watches them closely. The Master visits young master, at least once a week, early in the evening. It is the only time when even the elves cannot access the young master’s room. Not that she would ever dare to use her elf magic to tear down the Master’s spell; she would never do such a thing. Master must want privacy for a reason. But the young master always seems so troubled afterwards, and while Blue always catches Master looking at the young master fondly, she doesn’t often see the young master doing the same. 

 

_ “Young master?”  _ She asks, tentatively, shovel pausing. 

 

The young fairy rolls his eyes.  _ “How many times have I told you to simply call me Harry?”  _

 

Blue looks scandalized at the thought. 

 

Harry just chuckles.  _ “Yes, yes, I understand. It’s too ‘rude’ to just use my name.”  _ He shakes his head ruefully.  _ “What is it, Blue?” _

 

Blue hesitates. 

 

Clearly she waits too long, for Harry pauses in his own work, turning to her.  _ “Blue?”  _ He asks, concerned.  _ “What’s wrong?” _

 

Oh, Blue feels terrible, being so impolite. But she simply  _ must  _ ask.  _ “Is… is the young master happy, here?” _

 

It clearly takes the fairy by surprise. 

 

Blue bites her lip, ears drooping the longer the fairy goes without answering. Oh no. Oh  _ no.  _ Blue should have known. She didn’t want to dare think that the young master was unhappy here, but yet Blue had had a niggling feeling.The fairy’s eyes lowered. He was clearly trying to find a nice way of saying this. 

 

_ “Young master does not have to answer such a terribly rude question.”  _ Blue assures him, blinking wetly.  _ “Blue is sorry for asking.” _

 

_ “It’s alright, Blue.”  _ The young master sighs gustily.  _ “Of course you can ask. I just… don’t really have an answer. I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy here. I like you, and all of the other elves. I like my rooms; I like the gardens… I like the whole house, really. I've never really had a room, or a house— at least not one that I can remember— but I have to say I think they're quite spectacular, as far as rooms and houses go.” _

 

Blue shuffles her feet. She feels so awful, taking advantage of the young master’s kindness and openness. She knows she shouldn’t ask such questions, that it’s none of her business. She knows she would be killed for such an infraction if this was anyone but the young master. But the young master would never do that. Maybe that’s what gives her the courage to keep going.

 

_ “But— what about Master?”  _

 

He seems to like everything else just fine. And yet, for reasons Blue cannot understand, the young master does not seem to hold Master in the same light. She doesn’t understand why, but Harry is… quite clearly different with him. He doesn’t smile, or laugh, or chatter away with Master like he does with them. 

 

Harry takes a deep breath. He knew this would come up eventually. Some of the elves, like Mop, were happy to see what they wanted and not look any further than that. Others, like Foo, were so set in their ways that they insisted it was none of their business. But Blue wasn’t like that— Blue was so sweet and shy, but also very observant and very curious. She truly had a helper’s soul, always so worried for both himself and Voldemort. 

 

_ “It’s not that I don’t like him,”  _ Harry assures her, quickly.  _ “It’s just that I, well, I don’t know how to feel about him. He confuses me. He does a lot of things that I approve of, and some that I don’t. I guess I’m just not sure how to weigh the two sides and come to a conclusion.” _

 

It’s actually the most coherent he’s ever been when describing his thoughts on the Dark Lord, internally or otherwise. He’s actually rather impressed with himself. 

 

Blue considers this seriously.

 

She looks conflicted, ears bobbing about, as she appears to weigh something. Finally, she speaks. 

 

_ “Maybe young master just needs to learn more about Master. When Blue first met Master, he confused Blue a lot too. Blue didn’t understand why he would do things no other wizard would ever do. Blue had former masters that hated Master. They said Master was evil and cruel and ruining the world. And when Master came and killed Blue’s former masters, Blue believed them.” _

 

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. The house elves never talk about their past— unless in passing. He’s surprised, and humbled, to hear it.   

 

_ “Blue did not like her former masters, but she didn’t know what to do without them. Blue had no purpose besides serving her masters. And when Master killed her former masters, Blue was so upset. Even when Master said she could work for him, Blue was still so upset. She didn’t understand why Master would do such a thing! Killing is for bad wizards, but Master is not a bad wizard. Master is a good and just wizard. Blue still doesn’t understand, but she knows this to be true.” _

 

Harry digests this quietly, expression thoughtful.

 

He understands what Blue is trying to say. Sometimes the man does things that she doesn’t agree with, but she still believes him to be, overall, a good wizard. Harry can’t fault the logic; he feels the same. But at the same time, he still can’t come to a decision about him, even knowing both sides. 

 

But maybe Blue is right. Maybe he doesn’t know  _ all  _ of it.

 

Surely he doesn’t— all he knows of Lord Voldemort comes from their incredibly brief interactions and whatever he reads in the newspaper. Surely there is more to the Dark Lord than that. Harry could tell you all about the man’s latest bill to help werewolves assimilate into wizard culture, but he couldn’t tell you much about the man personally. He was just such a reserved and closed off individual. 

 

And to be fair, Harry wasn’t exactly helping the situation, what with playing mute for the majority of the time they’d known each other. 

 

Still though, there was a difference between admitting the man’s political platform had merit, and actually liking the man as a person. 

 

He thinks on this for the rest of the day, an idle thought in the back of his head as he migrates in doors once the heat becomes overbearing. He spares a few brief thoughts on it as he devours his way through the bookshelves in the main library, as he takes notes in his little journal on new alchemy principles and interesting ingredients he wants to grow in the garden. He gives it a bit more deliberation as he sits for lunch, and after, returns to the library to switch topics to magical history. In the end though, Harry is cautious and wary by nature; he prefers to sit and consider all options before acting, and this time is no different. He, as usual, decides there’s no real rush to this. Perhaps it’s even better that way— to just let their relationship unfold naturally, in whatever way it might. 

 

He’s thinking about the man a lot, really. It’s not helping that tonight is their weekly ‘appointment’. Just thinking about it makes him want to spontaneously combust. 

 

Harry chances a look at the clock, and realizes with surprise that not only has he missed dinner, but it’s well past eight o’clock, their usual time. Well, it’s not entirely surprising. These past few weeks the Dark Lord has often times been too busy to commit to a weekly schedule, so it’s been a bit sporadic. Still, he feels vaguely unsettled. 

 

And sitting around indoors is making it worse.

 

Mind made up, he changes into lighter clothes and heads back outside to do some evening gardening. The nightshade and deathbell plants have to be tended to in the moonlight, and a little bit of fae magic goes a long way in making sure they grow healthily. As he’s pruning the dry leaves off a deathbell stem, he hears little chirps crying into the still night air. At first he thinks its just crickets, but the pitch is too high and sad. After a bit of looking around, he notices a fallen rock warbler nest in the bushes behind the flower beds. 

 

He immediately rushes over, relieved to find that the chicks appear mostly unharmed from the fall. One of them has a wing bent at a worrying angle, but it’s nothing a bit of fairy magic can’t fix. Afterwards he stands with the nest in his hands, frowning up into the branches of the mossy oak tree sprawling above him. In his hands, the chicks cheep up at him curiously. Normally they would be scared of a large two-legged creature picking them up, but plants and animals always seem to recognize him as a fae and flock to him. 

 

It’s difficult to see, but he imagines the nest had been burrowed into the split of two large eaves, judging from what he thinks is the remainder of the nest still up there. Fortunately it wasn’t too high up, so the damage from the fall was minimal. Just getting it back up should be sufficient enough— hopefully the parents will see it, when they return from their hunting. 

 

The only problem is; even with its low height there’s no way Harry could reach it. 

 

He supposes he could try to climb the tree, but that seems a bit too difficult. He has wings, but… well at any rate he’d prefer not to use them. It’s just as he’s about to call for Blue that a voice interrupts him.

 

“Are you looking for something?”

 

Harry turns around in surprise, nearly dropping the bird nest. He hadn’t realized the man was home. 

 

“The— the nest,” Harry explains, flustered and wondering why he sounded so breathless when he’d actually been talking all day. “It fell.”

 

The human peers up into the tree branches. “Ah,” he says. 

 

Harry blinks, and then frowns. What is that supposed to mean?

 

Before he can ask, the human picks him up by the waist. This time, he really does almost drop the nest. He squeaks in surprise, almost jerking right out of the man’s grip. The chicks chirp unhappily at the sudden movements. 

 

Harry looks down at the man with no small amount of embarrassment and confusion— two emotions that seem par for the course whenever he deals with this human. “W— What are you— 

 

“It’s right there, isn’t it?” He cuts him off, moving back a step until Harry is level with the split in the branches. 

 

Harry swallows. “I think so,” he says, biting his lip. He very carefully places the nest back where it belongs, checking to make sure it doesn’t slip and fall again. 

 

Just in case, he brushes his fingers against the bottom of one of the branches; with a faint green glow, wood splinters out of bark, growing beneath the nest in wriggly limbs. Harry waits until the bottom of the nest is adequately structured on a net of branches before stopping. The chicks had stopped chirping at the sudden magic, staring at him with their big eyes. When he finishes, they chirp in a way he thinks is rather enthusiastic. He can’t help but smile at them. Not too long ago this garden didn’t have the diversity in plant life to attract such finicky feasters as the magical rock warbler. It’s good to see the fruits of his labor have made an impact.

 

“Impressive,” a voice says from beneath him, reminding Harry just where he is right now. 

 

He near jerks out of the man’s grip again, but fortunately the human seemed to have anticipated such a movement, and is already lowering him back to the ground. 

 

Now back on his own two feet, Harry catches his breath for a moment. Then he looks up at the man. He desperately searches his brain for something to say. 

 

“When did you get back?”

 

That’s okay, right? That’s normal. Not that Harry has led anything approaching a normal life, and would even know the meaning of the word. 

 

“A few minutes ago.” The man pauses, considering. “Have you eaten yet?”

 

Harry stares. After a moment he remembers to shake his head. 

 

“Would you like to have dinner with me, then?”

 

Another moment. It takes him even longer to remember to nod. 

 

The night is cool enough to enjoy a dinner under the stars. Harry wonders if this is what people consider to be ‘romantic’. Harry’s obviously never had a romance in his life, but he’s at least read a few books. He considers the scene around them, a table set for two under the stars, diffused baubles of light floating in the air around it. Even the slight breeze seems oddly romantic. 

 

It’s a silly thought; there’s nothing even remotely romantic about Harry and the Dark Lord. 

 

The Dark Lord is actually thinking something similar.

 

He hadn’t intended it to be, but there is something definitively romantic about the scene. He makes no comment on it, not wishing to draw any attention to the atmosphere and make the fairy even more nervous. He goes about dinner just as he would if this was any other evening he got to enjoy with the boy. As if the events of these past few days hadn’t happened. Even now, knowing the boy is perfectly capable of communicating, he has no expectations for it. Harry may speak whenever he wants to, for however long he wants to. 

 

And yet, despite his best efforts, the table is decidedly stiff.

 

He watches the fairy carefully; Harry is biting his lip, and he hasn’t eaten much of his food. He’s spent most of dinner pushing it around his plate. Voldemort frowns. He doesn’t know what has caused the fairy to once more clam up like this, but it upsets him nonetheless. 

 

“Is everything alright, Harry?” He doesn’t want to push the boy, but now that he knows the boy can speak it seems silly not to at least attempt to ask. Whether Harry actually answers is another matter.

 

Harry nods, looking down at his plate. For a long moment, Voldemort thinks that’s the only answer he’s going to get from the boy. 

 

“It’s… it’s past eight o’clock.” He says, voice tremulous.

 

The Dark Lord blinks, not understanding the significance of such a time.

 

Then his eyes widen. 

 

“So it is.” He agrees, once he’s recovered himself. “I apologize; I should have told you earlier I would be unable to make it. We’ll have to reschedule yet again. Something’s come up at the Ministry.”

 

Something was always up at the Ministry these days, it seemed.

 

Harry doesn’t know why he’s disappointed by that. If anything, he shouldn’t care in the least. Whether Voldemort decides to drink from him or not shouldn’t really matter to him. If anything, he should be pleased. And yet, he can’t help but notice that, despite this ‘something’ distracting the man at the Ministry, he’s still managed to make time to have dinner with Harry now. He doesn’t call the man out on his hypocrisy though, nodding again and returning his gaze to his food. 

 

He feels unsettled for the rest of dinner, and further still into the evening, long after the Dark Lord has departed for the capital once again. 

 

&&

 

After a few more repeated occurrences of the phenomenon, Harry has come to identify the unsettled, anxious feeling inside of him as  _ worry. _

 

He’s actually worried for the man, Merlin forbid, and he’s not the only one. 

 

The house elves are nervous and flighty, always eagerly awaiting their Master’s call. These days, the elves see far more of the man than Harry does. He still returns every once in a while to spend brief periods with Harry; an early supper, a late lunch. Sometimes he even sits out in the gardens and watches Harry tend to the creep clusters, seemingly content just to sit in silence and watch the fairy work. But it’s never for very long. He’s always off to yet another matter requiring his urgent attention. 

 

Harry has to wonder if it’s really that urgent, or if the man is just plain avoiding him. And if he is, what has Harry done to warrant it? 

 

He thought they were— rather getting along, honestly. 

 

And now the man seems to be keeping his distance. Quite literally. There always seems to be a very conscious meter of space between them whenever they’re together, and he doesn’t understand it. Does the man think Harry is still infected with something? No, that’s silly. But he has no other explanation. 

 

Another ‘appointment’ evening rolls by with no sign of the man, and Harry sighs, closing his journal and deciding he’s done for the night. He’s been writing down all the potions his mother had taught him, and how to grow all the ingredients necessary for them. Most of them are not yet in season, or do not grow naturally in this climate. Tom had said he could do whatever he liked with the gardens… he wonders if that includes building massive greenhouses to house more exotic and sometimes flesh-eating magical plants. 

 

At any rate, all his studying and writing has been thoroughly distracted with thoughts of the Dark Lord all night long. At this point, he should just give it up as a lost cause and go to bed.

 

&&

 

The Dark Lord Voldemort lets out a long, weary breath, thankful he is behind closed doors for no one to see it. 

 

Exhaustion has once again set in heavily against his shoulders, seeping into his very bones. A bone-deep tiredness like this takes days to accumulate, and at this point, for Voldemort it has been weeks. 

 

He continues to work non-stop around the clock, just as he had when he was drinking a fresh and ample supply of honey propolis every week. Back then, it was all too easy to brush aside his body’s natural need for sleep and recuperation in favor of tackling more of his work projects; he had absolutely boundless energy, impressive reflexes, and the constitution of an ox. Sickness and malaise were foreign things. He could easily go hours or days without stopping to eat. Even the usual headaches and backaches caused from long hours hunched over his desk had ceased to bother him. 

 

He’d grown dependent on it.  _ Far  _ too dependent. 

 

No matter what Harry said, he was still having a hard time wrapping his mind around drinking from the boy again, after everything that had happened. Harry was not just a fresh source of propolis, not even remotely. He was also not just a rare and fascinating magical creature. He was now more than that, to the Dark Lord. He was a boy with soft smiles, a compassionate nature and a quiet maturity that stood out so starkly against his young age. 

 

And the idea of defiling him like that made the Dark Lord feel physically ill. There was no way he could enter the fairy’s room late in the night, push him down onto the bed and pretend as if he hadn’t heard his enchanting voice, seen that sparkling smile. 

 

Even now, the thoughts warred within him. A large part of him was vehemently opposed. But there was always that smaller, darker part of him that didn’t care, that longed to taste the boy again. 

 

Worse still, on top of his chaotic thoughts his job as Minister was becoming more and more difficult. Wizarding Britain was in a period of evolution and expansion, and it was pulling him in multiple directions simultaneously. There were county council hearings on new natural reserves for magical creatures and new primary schools popping up all over the country. There were circuit court judges to appoint and parliament sessions to sit through and the endlessly tiring circus of politics spinning about all the while. 

 

The papers always commented on how timely and efficient he— and by extension his administration— had been in implementing all these new changes to the Wizarding World with a vague tone of incredulous disbelief.

 

Their bewilderment was not unfounded. No human should be able to take on the workload the Dark Lord took on regularly. It was just one of the many reasons people speculated he was some sort of superhuman god. 

 

And it was all a lie.

 

Without a steady diet of propolis, he was once again confined to the limitations of the human body. A human body that felt sleepiness, aches and pains, hunger and exhaustion. He knew he couldn’t keep up this pace without it, but there was no foreseeable way to slow down. The world needed him, usually in multiple places, at exactly the same time. 

 

Sleep, he thinks, dazedly. He needs to sleep. When was the last time he slept? When was the last time he even went home to his bed? He’d taken to catching a few hours here and there on his office couch, only coming home to shower and change before returning to the office. 

 

If he couldn’t even remember the last time he managed to close his eyes for more than thirty minutes, he was in bad shape indeed. 

 

With another deep sigh, he decides to cut his losses and head home. 

 

There’s a report he needs to finish by six o’clock tomorrow morning, a briefing to prepare for at nine, and after that a luncheon with Lucius and a party from the Belgian Ministry. In the afternoon he’s scheduled to tour a new magical school site in South Wales and iron out more of the particulars for the building with the builders, ward masters, and goblins. He has to immediately leave afterwards for a meeting with the giants. 

 

If he had been drinking propolis, he wouldn’t have even batted an eyelash at such a schedule. Now he wonders if he could even make it through the morning without collapsing.

 

That is absolutely not allowed, so he digs around in his impenetrably warded bottom drawer for a small black phial.

 

He pulls it out, holding it up in the dim lamp light for inspection.

 

The phial is no bigger than his little finger; considering the amount he’s used to drinking, this amounts to little more than a small sip, just a few seconds of him teasing nectar out of the boy as he loosens him up, perhaps enough to get him to make a noise or two, or even begin to spread his legs on his own— 

 

He shuts those thoughts down immediately, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opens them, the phial is still there, fingers curled around it. It is so small a thing, and yet this small innocuous tube of glass costs hundreds of galleons. 

 

It is also not nearly enough. 

 

And it is never going to be enough again.

 

Frustrated, he drops the phial back into the drawer and slams it shut, raising the wards around it once again as he stands up fluidly. He grabs his cloak, and makes to apparate before realizing he’s really in no state of health to be attempting it, and instead makes for the floo. 

 

He has to steady himself when he makes it out the other side, a hand on the mantle as he closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

 

Lightheadedness, and a vague sense of nausea. Wonderful. Even more symptoms of exhaustion are beginning to show themselves. 

 

He has about five hours to hopefully sleep this exhaustion away, if he’s lucky. If he isn’t, he’ll take the phial first thing in the morning when he gets in to the office, and hope it will be enough to sustain him for at least a few days longer.

 

“...Tom?”

 

He is not prepared to hear the soft, lilting voice, eyes snapping open in surprise.

 

Harry is hovering by the doorway, a timid hand placed against the frame as he seems to debate whether he should come any closer. How did the fairy even know he was home? The Dark Lord lets out a long exhale; his house elves, of course. 

 

“Harry, it’s late.” He manages to say. “What are you still doing up?”

 

This seems to give the boy courage. He pushes away from the door. “What are  _ you  _ doing up?” He challenges, walking closer.

 

Voldemort doesn’t know what the boy’s near proximity will do to him, but he has no means of escape. 

 

“Working,” he replies.

 

“At this time of night?” Harry questions softly, frowning. 

 

When he’s close enough to get a good enough look at the man, he’s concerned by what he sees. The Dark Lord looks terrible. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days— which is congruent to what the house elves have been telling him— and even though he’s dressed and groomed as impeccably as ever the dark circles beneath his eyes stand out starkly in the dim light of the fireplace. He looks perhaps even a bit gaunt as well.

 

“Are you feeling unwell?” Harry asks, worried. He reaches up on his tiptoes to brush his hand against the man’s forehead. It’s not hot, but it is rather cold and clammy, which is just as bad a sign.

 

“I’m fine,” he says, which does not reassure Harry in the least. When he catches sight of the fairy’s expression, he begrudgingly adds; “I just need a bit of rest, is all.”

 

Harry frowns deeper. “I’d say you need a great deal more than a  _ bit _ .” 

 

As if to prove his point, the man’s weight suddenly drops onto Harry, and the small fairy finds himself trying to hold up a human who probably weighs twice as much as he does. The fairy squeaks in surprise, hands rising to the man’s shoulders to steady him.

 

“Tom!” He cries, in alarm. This is definitely more than just a bit of exhaustion. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he still tries to insist. 

 

“Who are you trying to fool, here?” Harry grumbles, helping to steady him as he stands upright again. 

 

Harry is right, he’s in terrible condition, and it’s rather obvious. Him pointing it out though is somehow unbearable. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” He snaps back. 

 

His tone is probably a little too harsh, for the fairy rears back as if struck, the concern bleeding off his features and returning to a familiar look of impassivity. He didn’t realize how expressive the boy has been lately until all his emotions have fled from him, leaving him as cold and unyielding as he had been when he’d first arrived. 

 

The Dark Lord lets out a long, weary breath. He doesn’t want to push the fairy away, but he also doesn’t want to let him in. It’s a bit of a predicament. 

 

He sighs again, a hand rising to his temple. “I apologize.” He says, stiffly. “I appreciate the concern, but it is unnecessary.”

 

Some of the light returns to those striking eyes, as Harry’s lips thin into an unimpressed line. 

 

“I simply need a few hours of sleep,” he insists, although he’s not entirely sure how he plans to convince the fairy of this when he can’t even convince himself. 

 

Harry’s expression turns exasperated, but deeply concerned. “Tom— 

 

But he is cut off by a pop that startles them both. Harry takes a step back, flushing lightly when he realizes how close he had been standing to the human. Indecently close, really. 

 

Blue appears by the fireplace, looking nervous as her big eyes dart between them. Harry tries to give her a reassuring smile, despite his embarrassment. 

 

“Master, there is a guest in the entryway.” Blue announces, ears curled back against her head.

 

Harry blinks, surprised. “A guest, at this hour?”

 

Blue nods. “A young woman, young Master. Form France. She says she is a friend of yours, Master.”

 

A young woman, hm? Harry narrows his eyes. And— a  _ friend? _ At any rate, with the Dark Lord basically indisposed, he takes it upon himself to decide; “Tell her to return at a more acceptable hour.” 

 

Blue nods eagerly, only to return looking quite defeated a few moments later.

 

“Young master, Blue is very sorry, but the guest insists…” Blue wrings her apron anxiously.

 

Harry looks to the Dark Lord. “Do you know who this guest is?” Harry asks, frowning. 

 

Voldemort breathes out sharply from his nose. “Yes, I know who it is.” And Marion is the kind of woman who has no qualms in visiting a man’s house late at night, no matter what people think.

 

And, if it’s about what he thinks it is, he has a feeling time might be of the essence as well. 

 

“Bring her here.” He decides. He doesn’t exactly feel up to walking all the way to the entry parlor, and this will at least give him time to recover himself a bit.

 

Harry stares up at him with evident worry. “Tom,” he says, concerned. “You’re not actually thinking of conducting a business deal right now, are you?”

 

“It’s not exactly a business deal.” He returns, which doesn’t mollify the fae in the slightest.

 

“Still, it’s almost one in the morning!” Harry points out, crossly. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? Or at least until you’re well?”

 

“It shouldn’t take too long,” Voldemort dismisses, “and I told you, I’m fine.”

 

Harry looks at him incredulously. “Who are you trying to fool here?” Then he shakes his head, hands on his hips. “That’s it, I’m taking you to bed, guests be damned.”

 

Dusty is clearly rubbing off on him, the Dark Lord thinks, warmly. He’s secretly rather charmed to be bossed around like this by his usually demure fairy, but right now he’s a bit too tired to be fully amused. 

 

He might be dismissing Harry’s concerns out of hand, but privately he knows he’s pushed himself too far. 

 

He knows this is a bad idea all around. Too much could go wrong, having Marion here like this. And Harry here like this. But by Merlin his head feels like it’s going to split itself in too, and the severity of the situation seems to float right out of his thoughts. 

 

It's like watching a moving train wreck in slow-motion. He knows there's disaster ahead but can't do anything to stop it. Marion is a smart and sharp woman— not to mention a Veela. Her own familiarity with the creature slave trade will make the situation between he and Harry impossible to hide. 

 

There is only one reason a wizard would be hiding such a rare and priceless creature in secret like this.

 

“Go back to your rooms, Harry.” He commands the boy, making a valiant effort to stop his light-headedness from causing spots in his vision. 

 

“Not until I get you to bed.” He refutes, to the Dark Lord’s chagrin.

 

“Harry,” he admonishes. “I am capable of doing that myself.”

 

“And yet you’ve been proving yourself incapable for weeks now.” Harry retorts, wholly unmoved. “Don’t think the house elves don’t tell me when you come home and when you don’t. How many times have you worked through the night now? When was the last time you even  _ slept _ ?”

 

Because of course his house elves now favor Harry more than him, and are more than willing to give him information. He should be infuriated with them for such a show of disloyalty, but instead he feels almost fond. 

 

Harry doesn’t get very far in his mission. Blue pops back into the room, looking perhaps even more anxious than she had before. 

 

“Master, your guest…”

 

Voldemort supposes he should just resign himself to his fate. In a way, a part of him wants her to find out. A part of him knows he's deserving of the damnation.

 

The guest turns out to be perhaps the most beautiful woman Harry has ever seen in his life.

 

He’d always thought that particular title would go to his mother, but this woman was giving her a run for her money. She was tall and willowy, with sheets of silvery hair that looked like silk unspooling down her shoulders. Her features were human enough, but there was innate grace to her countenance that gave her away.

 

This woman was a veela, Harry was sure. 

 

But why was she here? 

 

“My lord!” The beautiful woman exclaims, when she enters the room. “I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour, but I’ve come to ask if it would be feasible to receive more of this cure. I know you said you would get the potion recipe to me, but I’m afraid it’s urgent…”

 

She pauses when she takes stock of the scene before her. 

 

The Dark Lord, as tall and domineering as usual, standing in the center of the room. He looks as he always does, although perhaps a bit more... tired than usual. Exhausted might be a better description. Still, it was understandable, given the late hour. 

 

It’s not the Dark Lord that gives her pause, rather, his companion by his side.

 

A small boy was attempting to tug the man by his sleeve, giving up when Marion made her appearance. He drops one of his arms, but keeps one hand fisted in the material of the Dark Lord’s shirt. He looks wary at her presence, scooting in closer to Lord Voldemort, as if to hide himself from her. 

 

He’s beyond beautiful, she thinks. There’s an elegant, ethereal quality to his features that is absolutely unmistakable. Combined with his big, sparkling jewel-like eyes, small build, snowy pale skin and pointed ears, there’s only one creature he could be. 

 

“Marion,” the Dark Lord greets, blandly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, at such an hour?”

 

“I— “ She has a hard time tearing her gaze away from the magnificent creature. “I apologize for coming so late, and unannounced as well. I’ve come to see if there was any way I could get more potion… as soon as possible, if you could.”

 

“I gave you my word that I would get the recipe to you.” He points out, calmly.

 

Marion blinks dazedly, unable to stop staring at the young boy, even though it was clearly making him uncomfortable. Finally she tears her gaze away, the matter at hand enough to push aside her curiosity. 

 

“It’s urgent.” She says, her voice on the verge of frantic. “My sister has taken a turn for the worse. I tried to give her the dose you suggested but both times she just vomited it up before it could take effect. And I don’t think there’s enough left to try again…”

 

“Vomiting it up?” The Dark Lord presses, frowning. “How far along is she?”

 

Marion’s expression crumples. “Quite far.” She reveals, voice trembling. “She’s battled with it for so long. It’s to the point that my family and I have been flooing back from here to visit her every night, just in case…”

 

The lovely woman cuts herself off before she can get too emotional. Best not to think about that right now. 

 

“At any rate, I don’t know how much longer she has, so I came in the hopes you might be able to do something. And as we leave tomorrow morning, this will be my last chance to ask.”

 

Of course she did. Voldemort had already written to Dvorak, asking for the recipe for the cure, but had yet to receive a response. He truly hoped the vampire healer wasn’t ignoring him on principle, given the seriousness of the matter involved, but he had a feeling the man was just currently uncontactable. The vampire healer did this often enough; holed up away from the world in the bowels of the citadel, nothing but candlelight, books and goblets of blood for company. 

 

If Dvorak was taking too long, he could just reverse engineer the potion himself. He was an exceptional potioneer, after all. It wouldn’t be too difficult for him. Unfortunately while it might not be difficult the event would still be quite time consuming, and he simply had none of that to spare these days. Certainly not now, when he was fairly sure he had worked himself to the point of collapse, and his duties showed no signs of slowing down. There was always Severus as well, but he'd sent the man to Greece earlier in the week for a mission of utmost importance, and pulling him away from that would jeopardize the entire operation.

 

Harry frowns as he digests the situation.

 

This woman is a veela, and he could only assume her sister was too. And her sister must have Hargraven’s disease— the same disease Harry had caught. More than likely, it was this woman’s sister that Harry had caught it from in the first place, since he’d gotten it from Tom, who had been in contact with a veela carrier. 

 

There was no way to know how long her sister had been fighting the illness, but from the woman’s words it sounded like it had been a long time. Since recovering from the horrible sickness, he’d spent some time researching it in depth. It could take years for someone to die from it, but all the same it was a difficult disease to recover from. Those suffering could see long remissions of the disease, only to have it return years later. And even if one managed to recover, more than likely the disease had already caused permanent damage. 

 

He wants to help this woman, truly. But he doesn’t think Tom is up to it. 

 

“Tom,” he murmurs, too quiet for her to hear, as he tugs on his sleeve.

 

“Not now, Harry.” Tom replies, just as quiet.

 

Harry’s eyes flash in annoyance. He understands this is a professional meeting and he should be as respectful as possible, but he has a solution that he thinks could work. 

 

“Pardon my rudeness,  _ mon cher, _ ” a voice cuts through his thoughts. He turns back to the veela woman, who is staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “But I have to ask… are you… could you possibly be…”

 

Harry merely stares back as she trails off, expression guarded. 

 

Suddenly he realizes exactly why Tom wanted him gone. This woman was a veela— even more so than the vampire healer, she would be able to jump to the obvious conclusion here… 

 

“A high elf?” She whispers, voice high and tremulous.

 

Harry debates whether to answer. At this point, playing mute would probably do more harm than good. “Close.” He replies, enigmatically.

 

Her expression dawns with realization. “A highland fae.” She breathes.

 

Harry nods.

 

“But I thought— I thought they were extinct.” She says, shocked. “I’d heard the last highland fae on the British isles had been killed, and her child along with her.”

 

Harry is surprised to hear it. How did this veela know that? All the same he answers; “Not quite.” 

 

“Oh— then, your mother— ?” The beautiful woman lowers her gaze briefly, warm empathy in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

Harry shrugs, uncomfortable with the idea of thinking of his mother, or her death. 

 

“You’ve been here then?” She looks between the two of them, a speculative look in her gaze. 

 

The Dark Lord knows exactly where this is going. He wishes he had enough presence of mind to nip the conversation before it even starts, but a wave of nausea rolls over him in that moment, effectively distracting him. Harry’s grip on his arm tightens, as if to ground him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“...With the Dark Lord?” She gives them a measured glance. “How did he find you? Why didn't you tell us, my Lord? My family and I would have loved to meet him. A highland fae, after all this time…”

 

The man merely stares at her, impassively, finally getting the world to stop spinning long enough to reply; “Because I did not want you to know.”

 

His response is damning enough as it is. The excitement at meeting such a rare creature begins to dim in her eyes as suspicion grows.

 

“You didn't want me to know?” She repeats, slowly. “And why would that be? You know my kind would never hurt him.”

 

The tall woman turns to her gaze towards Harry. “How, exactly, did you come to be in the Dark Lord’s possession,  _ Mon cher _ ?”

 

Harry blanches. “That’s. Well…”

 

When Harry doesn’t finish that sentence, the silence seems to grow almost deafening. He sees her expression as thoughts fly through her head. The atmosphere seems to cool considerably, as Marion comes to her own conclusions. 

 

“You were captured.” She surmises, flatly. “That’s how your mother was killed.” 

 

Harry nods. 

 

“Taken to a broker?”

 

He nods again.

 

“Kept in captivity?” 

 

Another nod. 

 

Her vibrant eyes have turned a molten shade of gold, alit with fury. “And then what? The Dark Lord magnanimously  _ bought  _ you to save you from captivity, only to place you in yet another cage?”

 

Harry is still somewhat stunned with how quickly people jump to this conclusion— despite it being one hundred percent correct. Do people truly have so little faith in the Dark Lord? Or is the reality of magical creature exploitation that apparent to the outside world? She’s a Veela, though. Her kind is just as persecuted as Harry’s, if not more so, due to their greater numbers. She probably knows this story intimately well. Maybe it had even happened to her. 

 

“It’s not what you think,” Harry denies weakly. Actually, it’s _ exactly _ what she thinks.

 

Her eyes soften somewhat. “You don’t have to stand up for him. I know the kind of monsters wizards can be; I know it extremely well. My little sister… she’s not much younger than you. She was taken from us, when she was five.  _ Five _ . And we were not unprotected— I come from a very influential family back in France. To think that even we were not protected enough…”

 

Marion break off with a restrained sob, making a valiant effort to compose herself. Harry remembers the Veela girl in the cage beside him, so young and so broken.  _ “Better to be treated like an animal than to be treated like trash.”  _

 

“We were lucky.” She sniffs, once she’s blinked back most her tears. “The French Ministry goes to great lengths to protect us, their Veela population. We were able to find Stella only a few months after she had been kidnapped. But the horrors she had seen, my poor  _ petite soeur,  _ it’s taken years for her to recover. And then on top of it all, she was infected with Hargraven’s Disease from her time in captivity, when she had been trapped in a dog cage in a cramped warehouse with at least three dozen other Veela children. In such terrible conditions, it was no wonder she fell sick.”

 

Harry stares at her, at a complete loss. “I’m sorry…”

 

“You are not at fault,  _ mon cher.  _ Not at all. You are just as much a victim in this disgusting trade as she was. It’s the wizards that must be held accountable.” Marion insists, fire lighting in her eyes once more. She turns to the Dark Lord, eyes blazing. “I should have known even the exalted Dark Lord was not exempt from the evil of his kind.”

 

This, somehow, is what Harry takes issue with. 

 

He takes a breath. “I understand your anger, and your pain. But the Dark Lord is not at fault here.” Her look is downright incredulous. 

 

She gives a snort of disbelief. 

 

“So you mean to tell me he’s not keeping you here?”

 

“No, he’s not.” Harry answers honestly, surprising both the veela and the Dark Lord. 

 

Her surprise turns into skepticism. 

 

“I’m being honest.” Harry insists, before she can try to deny it. 

 

Harry pulls the collar of his shirt down, exposing his full neck, completely bare of blemishes and collars alike. The Dark Lord looks confused at the action, but he knows the veela will know what it means. If she is as familiar with the slave trade as she seems to be, she’ll know the significance of the binding slave collars. She’ll know how it all but crushes the wearer’s magical core, how it turns them into nothing more than a mindless puppet, emotion and coherent thought muted by its powers. 

 

Her eyes widen.

 

“You— …” She starts, then stops, swallowing, looking so surprised she has no words. 

 

“I don’t have a collar.” He says, simply. “I have full access to all my powers. If I truly didn’t want to be here… well, then I wouldn’t be here.”

 

The veela looks flummoxed. 

 

“Then… why are you here?” She cannot help but ask. “Why do you remain?”

 

Harry darts a quick look towards Tom, trying to gauge his reaction. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking behind his visage of shock. 

 

“Because I believe in what the Dark Lord stands for.” He replies, honestly, tearing his gaze away from the man. “What happened to me, and what happened to your little sister… I want to see a world where that never happens again. Where I don’t have to be worried about hiding my true self in fear of capture and persecution; where I can go to school and live a normal life like everyone else and not have anything to fear.”

 

Harry looks down, struggling to continue. “I want that. I want that future. And I know only the Dark Lord could make that possible.” He pauses, taking a breath. “So, that’s why I stay.” 

 

The tall, willowy woman looks moved by his words, a warm expression of both sympathy and sorrow staining her perfect features. Harry can tell she understands what he’s trying to say. And he can tell she feels the same. 

 

How could she not? Her kind had suffered just as much as his over the centuries. They both knew their kinds desperately needed someone who could change this terrible world. And they both knew the Dark Lord was that someone. Hell, she had just come to him begging him for help. Already she was looking to him for salvation. 

 

“I see.” Marion breathes out, smiling slightly. She looks down at the vial in her hands. “I assume this cure was originally for you, then?”

 

Harry blushes, nodding. “Yes. And the Dark Lord went through great lengths at great personal risk to get it for me.”

 

“And in the process saved an entire genealogy of magical creatures.” Marion adds, shaking her head in wonder. “I suppose I really have you to thank for this then, don’t I?”

 

“No, no, really it was all the Dark Lord…” Harry risks another glance up at the man, who has seemed content to let Harry handle the situation thus far. The man is looking back at him with an expression that is impossible to read. “I had nothing to do with the cure, really.”

 

“Ah yes, the cure. Let’s get back to the matter originally  at hand, shall we?” Voldemort interrupts, drily, as he manages to push his dizziness away long enough to speak coherently.  

 

Marion flushes to her roots at that, clearly ashamed by her earlier accusations. 

 

“I should be able to reverse engineer it for you quickly enough. Failing that, my colleague who created it in the first place will write back to me eventually— he’s just a bit difficult to contact at times.”

 

Marion quickly places the vial in his hand, looking perhaps a bit chastised. “Yes, please. Thank you for all your help, my Lord. And I… I truly apologize for jumping to conclusions like that.”

 

Conclusions that were not unfounded in the least, Voldemort thinks, dryly. 

 

“I understand it’s a very difficult subject for you.” He accepts the apology with a nod of his head. “And I can’t fault you for jumping to a conclusion that is correct almost one hundred percent of the time.”

 

“ _ Almost. _ ” She emphasizes, wryly. 

 

“Yes, almost.” The human agrees, stealing a glance at the fae still by his side. 

 

Harry smiles back up at him, and it is a small and shy thing, but entirely genuine. He can almost forgive Marion for her irritating and untimely intrusion, with this smile being the result of it. 

 

Marion watches the two of them with dawning surprise. She covers her mouth with her hand, where she can’t help but smile. Oh, it seems she had vastly misjudged this situation… From the looks the two are giving each other, she imagines the fairy is most definitely not being held here against his own volition… No, not at all.

 

The Dark Lord finally manages to tear his gaze away from the alluring sight, clearing his throat. “I will endeavor to have it to you by morning. In the meanwhile, I will have a house elf escort you back to the floo.”

 

She bows deeply. “Thank you again, my Lord.” She cannot express how much his actions mean to her. 

 

Even after she had gone off and accused him of such things, he was still willing to make the effort for her. Not just her, for countless other magical creatures currently suffering. She will be sure to express her gratitude towards the Dark Lord to both the French Minister and her grandmother, the matriarch of all French veela. He really does do so much for magical creatures, and he truly does care… And then there is the highland fae, perhaps one of the rarest and most elusive creatures on this earth, coming to his defense and staying by his side as an advocate for him. That was most surprising of all. 

 

To think, the Dark Lord had such a staunch supporter in one of the most terrorized magical creatures in history… The highland fae were the most persecuted of them all, except perhaps for their already extinct direct ancestor, the high elf. And just like the high elves, they had been systematically hunted down and killed until they may as well have been extinct themselves. That fairy had every right to loathe all of wizard kind and never lift a finger to help them in any endeavor, after everything they had done to his kind. And yet, here he was, doing the opposite. Supporting a wizard, staying with him, even, and giving up his home. 

 

Yes, they would be very interested to hear of this new development in England. 

 

&&

 

Harry breathes out a sigh of relief once the veela is gone, all but strong arming the Dark Lord into sitting down on a nearby chaise. It must have made for a hilarious sight— a tiny little fairy attempting to drag a tall human practically twice his size. He’s still impressed he managed it at all.

 

Harry wouldn’t know it, but that was entirely because the Dark Lord did not have the presence of mind to fight him.

 

Right now, his thoughts were still stuck on the fairy’s words from earlier. 

 

All this time… this whole time, the fairy had been… free? Completely capable of leaving at any time? Voldemort still can’t quite wrap his head around it. If that was true, then Harry was here by his own volition. Harry was staying,  _ voluntarily.  _ But that didn’t make any sense. Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he choose his own freedom?

 

“— a hot compress, and maybe some light soup.” Harry is in the middle of saying, when he finally resurfaces from his thoughts. “And a blanket. And a few more pillows.”

 

His house elves bow dutifully, more than willing to follow the fairy’s orders. 

 

Harry turns around then, and his no nonsense expression softens some when he looks down at him. The fairy sits next to him on the seat, gazing at him with evident worry. “I know it’s an urgent matter, but you’re really not planning on working the whole night away again, are you?”

 

The Dark Lord sighs tiredly. “You heard the woman yourself. There is a very real reality her sister might die if I don’t.”

 

Harry stares at him for a long moment. 

 

“You really do care about them,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Voldemort closes his eyes, feeling the pull of sleep grow even stronger now that he’s lying down. It’s difficult to even keep up with this train of conversation. “Hmm?”

 

“The veela,” Harry elaborates. 

 

The Dark Lord could be considered just and fair to a degree, but no newspaper outlet would ever dare to call him ‘kind’. He was a Dark Lord for a reason, and his ruthlessness in the face of his opposition was well known. And yet, he would let that veela woman storm in here at such a late hour, accuse him of participating in the magical slave trade, and then  _ still _ agree to help her. 

 

“Yes, of course.” He manages to say, voice somewhat mumbled with sleep. 

 

“Just as you care about all magical creatures.”

 

He makes a vague noise of assent. 

 

Harry is glad the Dark Lord has already closed his eyes; he’s not sure if he wants the man to see his expression right now. It’s not something Harry is even sure he wants to own up to himself. 

 

He feels a bit overwhelmed, as he stares down at this man, and finds him reaching to curl his hands around the man’s large one. 

 

In that moment, he vows to do everything he possibly can to help him. And if he's being honest with himself, he knows his motivations aren't entirely self-serving, either.

 

&&

 

The first course of action is using one of the house elves to call Dvorak. He’d promised to answer Harry’s call, no matter the time, and Harry was hoping he’d make do on the promise. 

 

Fortunately he did. He had locked himself in the bowels of the vampire citadel to study the properties of a new species of glowing mushroom he's read about in a long lost ancient scroll, and had barred any post from getting to him. House elves, fortunately, were a bit more wily than owls. He was quite accommodating once Harry explained the situation, writing down the potion instructions and promising to return early in the morning with another batch of the cure. The vampire healer had asked after Harry’s health, and Harry had assured him, with complete and utter honesty, that he was absolutely fine. 

 

_ He  _ was perfectly fine.

 

The Dark Lord, on the other hand...

 

Harry bit his lip, returning to his vigil by the human’s side. 

 

He’d moved the man to his bedroom with the help of the elves a few hours ago, and the sun was already rising and he didn’t seem even remotely close to waking up. Harry couldn’t believe how rapidly the man’s health had deteriorated; of course not sleeping, rarely eating, and working nearly every hour of the day would take a toll on anyone, but to think it had gotten this bad without anyone noticing… Well the man was very good at hiding things, wasn’t he? He’d managed to hide Harry these past few months. 

 

Harry had to wonder how long that could keep up, though. The Dark Lord was too well known a figure to keep a secret this large forever. Already cracks were beginning to form on its formidable armor. 

 

Harry shakes his head. No use thinking on that now.

 

A pop interrupts his thoughts; it’s Sudsy, a shy scullery elf that Harry only sees if he ventures into the laundry room. He seems frightened to even be in the Dark Lord’s rooms.

 

_ “Young Master, Dusty says wizards be asking about Master.” _

 

Harry’s eyes widen. “Wizards? When? How many? Are they here?”

 

Sudsy looks positively overwhelmed at all the questions, having already been upset before the bombardment. “A few minutes ago. He’s be just one wizard, and Dusty didn’t let him in. Dusty made sure the floo parlor was sealed off properly, after the tall lady came.”

 

Harry nods slowly, lost in thought. “What did he want?”

 

“He’s be asking about Master. He says Master had things to do, but Master isn’t there.”

 

There’s absolutely no way Tom was going to make it to any of his engagements today. Harry let out a breath. “Did Dusty tell him the Dark Lord was sick?”

 

Sudsy rapidly shakes his head. “Dusty says nothing! Dusty wouldn’t tell the mean wizard nothing! But the mean wizard be threatening Dusty!”

 

“Threatening?” Oh no, this wasn’t good. 

 

Sudsy tugs at his ears, looking beside himself. “Oh, and Sudsy left poor Dusty with the bad man! How could Sudsy do this…”

 

“No, no, you did the right thing Sudsy, coming to me.” Harry assures him, climbing off the bed. “Could you please watch over the Dark Lord for me? I’ll go help Dusty.”

 

Sudsy’s eyes grow wide and wet. “Young Master is so kind… praising wretched Sudsy like this…”

 

Harry spares him a small smile. “You’re not wretched, Sudsy. And you’ll tell me if anything changes with Lord Voldemort, right?”

 

Sudsy nods eagerly. “Yes, Young Master! Sudsy will not let you down!”

 

Harry nods in return, and then is tearing off down the hallways. He wonders why it was Sudsy, out of all the elves, who came to find him. Sudsy was a frightened elf who had been abused terribly by his former masters, to the point he was scared to talk to anyone but the other elves. It had even taken Harry some time to get the elf to open up to him. Harry was actually quite proud of him for how he handled this situation; he’d have to tell the elf that later. Positive reinforcement went a long way with them.

 

When he finally manages to make it to the entryway, he realizes exactly why it was only Sudsy who came to him.

 

All the rest of the elves were here, blocking the path into the rest of the house like some kind of line of defense. Mop was actually holding a mop up like some kind of weapon, braced in front of him as he shook considerably. They all looked quite fearful, actually. Harry realized why when a zap of magic tears through the air.

 

Harry watches in horror as Dusty goes sailing through the air, thrown aside by a curse of some kind.

 

He reacts without thinking, stopping her flight mid descent and directing her to float into his arms. There’s a dark bruise on the side of her head, as if someone had smashed it against the floor. She was barely even conscious.

 

Harry looks up, eyes livid. 

 

A blonde wizard stood in the middle of the room, brandishing his wand. His sneer melts into a look of surprise when he sees Harry standing in the mouth of the doorway. 

 

“Ah, finally, an actual person.” The man says casually, lowering his wand. “I wondered how long I would have to put up with these vermin.”

 

Harry has never felt such rage in his life. Fae were peaceful creatures, after all. It was so unnatural to him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. The very house seemed to come to life with his emotions, a slight buzzing taking to the air. The floor seemed to vibrate, ever so slightly, as the pillars and columns quietly shook and the windows fluttered.

 

“I was meant to meet with the Dark Lord hours ago— it’s not like him to be late. I’ve been trying to, ah,  _ persuade  _ these creatures for an audience, but unsurprisingly they are too dim to understand the severity at hand.”

 

The look he gives the man is full of ice; a gaze so cold it actually seems to drop the temperature considerably. “I don’t think they are dim at all. The Dark Lord is not accepting visitors— most especially not the likes of you.” 

 

A high flush rises on the man’s cheeks as rage colors his features. “You dare— “ He sputters, ineffectually. “Do you have any idea who you are speaking to?” He shouts with indignation, smacking his cane on the ground as emphasis. 

 

“No, not really.” Harry replies, blandly.

 

The man rears back, baring his teeth. “You ignorant simpleton,” he sneers, “I am the Lord of the Malfoy family! You aren’t even qualified to lick the dirt off my boots!”

 

“Ah, I see.” Harry says, deceptively calm. “Well, Lord of the Malfoy family, if you wish to remain alive to continue to be Lord of your family, I would suggest you leave and ask to reschedule.”

 

“You dare to threaten me?” The man hisses.

 

Harry merely narrows his eyes. “That wasn’t a threat— that was a promise.”

 

He brandishes his wand again, livid fury in his eyes as he raises it high. He must have some sort of spell in mind, but it dies on his lips as he is seized off his feet by a terrible force, the air itself crushing around him. 

 

The Lord of the Malfoy family chokes pathetically as he dangles in the air by a bruising grip, wand and cane clattering to the floor. Harry watches him gasp for breath, loud choking and spitting noises echoing in the chamber. The fairy spends a brief moment daydreaming of actually snapping the man’s neck, before ultimately deciding that might be excessive. And it wouldn’t be even a drop of water on the fiery rage he feels right now, as incensed as he is by the human’s words. 

 

Harry checks his watch, realizing he’s meant to meet Dvorak any minute now. Seeing as he doesn’t have a moment to spare for the human, he tosses him out of the house. Quite literally. 

 

The human soars through the air— just as Dusty had earlier— except there was no fairy magic to ease his fall. Instead his velocity increases, and then his body shatters through the window behind him, thrown out somewhere past the wards perimeter. Harry isn’t entirely sure if a human can survive that sort of fall. He finds he doesn’t exactly care either way.

 

He turns away from the massive hole in the window, crouching low in front of a shivering Blue. 

 

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he murmurs, realizing his actions may have only terrified the elves further. 

 

Blue shakes her head rapidly. “Young Master doesn’t need to be sorry. Young Master saved us from the bad man.” 

 

Harry smiles at her courage. “Do you think you could take care of Dusty for me, Blue? She’s going to need to rest for a bit.”

 

Blue nods voraciously. “Of course, Young Master!”

 

He looks down at the elf in his hands, still unconscious. He adjusts his grip so he can hold her one-handed, his other hand spread above her. A faint green light emits from his palm; an identical light seems to glow from within the elf’s body. As it spreads through her, the bruises and cuts begin to fade away. 

 

He hands her to Blue once he’s finished, turning to the other elves.

 

“Thank you all for your help,” he says, sincerely. “Your loyalty to the Dark Lord is truly appreciated.”

 

They all smile at him shakily in response. 

 

He turns to the floo the man presumably came out of. The Dark Lord has many floos in his vast manor, each connected to certain places with different levels of access. This was his main floo, connected to his office in the Ministry. Anyone could use it, assuming they had access to his office to begin with. Harry strides over to it, laying a hand on the mantle. He closes his eyes. Wards are always tricky to him, but he can manipulate them easily enough if he had adequate time to dedicate to the task. Fortunately this wouldn’t take long, he just had to wrap the wards around the floo a bit more tightly, blocking the connection to this fireplace. The other floos would not be affected. 

 

He lets out a breath, eyes fluttering open as the house’s wards seem to groan to life. The elves watch him with large, awe-filled eyes. 

 

_ “Keep doing your usual duties.” _ He commands them, realizing they’re all waiting for an order from him.  _ “And if anyone else tries to come here, come find me immediately.” _

 

They nod vigorously, before disappearing with various pops. 

 

Harry has just enough time to all but jog down to the floo in the healers rooms, where he had told Dvorak to meet him.

 

The elderly vampire healer was already there by the time he arrived.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry says, a little breathless. “I— there was, uh, an issue I had to take care of.” 

 

Now that he’s had a few minutes to calm down, he wonders if he  _ may  _ have overreacted to the situation a bit. But wizards like that were the reason for all the hatred and prejudice surrounding magical creatures, and he absolutely wouldn’t stand for it. 

 

Dvorak raises an interested brow.

 

Harry has no time to discuss it though. “Is that the cure?” He looks down at the beaker in the man’s hands. 

 

 The vampire nods. “Yes. It should be enough to help the young girl you spoke of— if she’s had the disease for a long time, she’ll need small but steady doses administered at regular intervals. I believe that must have been the problem; if she was given the same dosage as you were, as I imagine she was, then it would have been too much for her already overtaxed system to handle, and her body would have rejected it.”

 

Harry whispers the instructions under his breath, nodding along. “Okay. Small, steady, regular intervals. How small is small?”

 

“How small is the girl?” Dvorak returns. “I’m afraid I’ve never found an exact ratio, a bit of guesswork will need to be involved. Better to start with a very small dose, and see how she does. If she’s throwing it back up even then, she must be more sensitive than usual to one of the ingredients. Try administering it with bland food; oatmeal, rice porridge. Perhaps bread.”

 

Harry repeats all of this in his head, committing them to memory. 

 

“Great, okay. Thank you very much, Healer Dvorak. I’m sorry to make you brew it in such short notice.”

 

“No need to apologize, I was happy to help.” The vampire replies, genially. Then he stares consideringly at Harry. “And as for you— everything is okay?”

 

“Yes, everything is perfectly fine,” Harry insists. Then he sighs. “Well, aside from Tom falling ill like this. It can’t be helped though; he’s in no condition to do anything but rest.”

 

Dvorak’s brows raise high into his hairline. “Tom?” He repeats, sounding surprised.

 

Harry blinks. “Err— well, that is his name… right?” It occurs to him Dvorak might not know.

 

“Yes, yes it is.” The healer nods. “It’s just— he doesn’t use it anymore.” The vampire looks contemplative.

 

Harry flushes. “Oh. Well, that’s what he told me his name was, so I just assumed…”

 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine.” The vampire waves it off. “At any rate, don’t hesitate to contact me again if there’s anything else I can do.”

 

“Thank you again for your help,” Harry returns, earnestly. “I’m sorry to bother when I know you’re so busy, but yes, I’ll call if anything else comes up.”

 

The vampire laughs. “Those excavation scrolls have been there for hundreds of years— I think they’ll be alright for a little bit longer.” He pauses. “On the subject of those scrolls, I was wondering if I could persuade you to come visit me sometime.”

 

Harry looks conflicted. “Visit?” He repeats, hesitant. “Well…”

 

It’s not as if the Dark Lord is keeping him here but all the same he doesn’t know how he feels about leaving. 

 

“That sounds alright,” he says, after a beat. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“They have some important accounts from a vampire merchant in frequent contact with the high elves. Purely from a health and wellness standpoint, I think they will be useful to you.”

 

Harry nods along, unable to give the idea much thought right now. 

 

They bid farewell soon after that, and then Harry is racing off again to meet Marion at yet another floo location. He understands from a security standpoint how essential it is to have segmented floo networks like this, but by Merlin does it get tiring having to traverse between them. When he hands over the second bottle and the potion instructions she is positively ecstatic. She also once again professes her profuse apologies over last night, asking Harry to deliver her sincerest apologies to the Dark Lord. 

 

“I think he understood the predicament you were facing,” Harry assures gently, when she apologizes for the third time.

 

Marion nods despondently. “Yes, I just feel horrible to accuse him of such a thing. I just— I wasn’t thinking. I’m just so familiar with those kinds of situations it was easy to jump to the conclusion…”

 

The completely accurate conclusion, Harry thinks wryly.

 

“As I said, I’m sure he understands. He’s very familiar with them too, you know? He rescued me, after all. He's seen it first hand. And he knows how much of a sensitive topic it must be for you.” Harry smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry about your alliance; I doubt it’s in jeopardy. The Dark Lord cares a lot about magical creatures and our rights.”

 

The willowy blonde seems to eye him speculatively at that. “Yes,” her eyes twinkle. “He cares quite a bit, doesn’t he?”

 

Harry doesn’t quite understand the question, frowning slightly. “Of course.” 

 

She laughs at his confusion, grinning. “Well, at any rate, thank you for all the help Harry. And again, please send my sincerest apologies to the Dark Lord. We’ll be in touch.”

 

Harry nods, and has to wonder when he ended up being the Dark Lord’s spokesperson and advocate. All the same, it feels good to help in some small way— well, aside from the  _ other  _ way he helps him. 

 

As Marion leaves, Harry struggles internally on what to do with the Dark Lord. He’ll recover eventually; he’s not sick or anything like that, just exhausted. His body will return to normal after a few days of rest. But from the brief taste he’s had of the man’s schedule, he doubts the man will ever actually have time to do that. 

 

Harry sighs. There’s really no helping it, then.

 

&&

6.

&&

 

Crimson eyes blink up into a blinding white light. He almost immediately groans, shutting his eyes against it. 

 

It’s sunlight, of course. But how? He always keeps his blinds shut to avoid this very scenario. And the house elves know better than to change that, so who would— 

 

His eyes open again, this time blinking out into the world with purpose. His vision focuses after a few moments. The room is besieged by sunlight. It must be late morning, or worse, early afternoon. Fuck. He’s already way behind schedule. He’ll have to get in contact with Yaxley and hopefully make it in time for the meeting with the giants— 

 

His whirlwind thoughts come to a stuttering halt when he turns his head and realizes he’s not alone.

 

Harry is sitting beside him, bathed in scintillating sunshine. He looks enchanting and unreal, sparkling eyes full of worry as he frowns down at him. The fairy is always enough to take his breath away, but it’s profound, somehow, to see him here. Privately, he has to think; is it any real wonder wizards have all but destroyed the fae, just to touch them and breathe them in and pretend as if they could possibly have them, even for just a moment? As he looks upon this striking creature, he can suddenly understand that fervid, delusional obsession with far more empathy than he would like.

 

It all comes rushing back to him then.

 

He stares at the fairy blankly.

 

He’s so caught off guard he doesn’t even know what to say.

 

“How are you feeling?” The impossible creature asks him, taking his breath away. 

 

“Fine.” He manages to say, after a long moment recovering himself.

 

Upon further consideration, he feels more than fine. He feels completely healthy, as if his health hadn’t been in steady decline for weeks now. There are no lingering aches and pains, no dull pounding against the back of his eyes, no sharp pain in his temples, the base of his neck. He is somehow, impossibly, completely cured. Well no, it’s not quite impossible, is it? There’s certainly a way to cure all ailments, a surefire elixir that can bring a wizard back from the brink of death…

 

His eyes widen as he stares at the fairy in a new light.

 

Harry is not looking at him, fidgeting nervously. 

 

“I— I’m sorry I didn’t wake you.” He rushes to say. “Don’t worry about Marion, I gave her an extra potion as well as the brewing instructions from Dvorak. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I had one of the elves contact your secretary and have him reschedule all your engagements for the day that could be rescheduled. Unfortunately, your meeting with the giants couldn’t be postponed, but—

 

Voldemort sits up straight at that. “What time is it?”

 

Harry startles, taken aback by the urgency in his voice. “It’s almost four o’clock.” He assures him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your meeting isn’t until seven. Please rest— at least long enough for the propolis to fully absorb into your system.”

 

The Dark Lord is not used to mothering of any kind, so he is startled enough to allow Harry to carefully settle him back into bed. 

 

Then the boy’s words catch up to him. He blinks, shocked. “Propolis?”

 

Harry shifts uneasily, looking a bit flushed, and his eyes are drawn to the bedside table behind the boy, where a small glass bottle sits, mostly empty. He stares at it for some time, shocked into silence. Eventually his gaze returns to the fairy, who is now blushing in earnest, and very studiously not meeting his gaze. 

 

“You…” He’s so astonished he doesn’t even know what to say.

 

Harry looks down at his lap, wringing his fingers anxiously. “I— I don’t really know why you need a steady supply of it, but I can only imagine it must be for a very important reason.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “And, well, your health is very important, so I understand why it’s necessary.”

 

“Harry,” he says, completely astounded. 

 

“And I’m really sorry about doing all this without asking you,” he rushes to add, before Voldemort can even try to think of something else to say. “But you really needed the rest, and everything could be rescheduled anyway. Err— well, not everything, which is why I wanted to give you propolis, because I know how important the meeting with the giants is, and I didn’t want you to miss it but I also knew you were in no shape to go and then— Oh Merlin, and someone came here looking for you and he was a terrible man who was cursing the house elves and I just sort of lost it, I didn’t mean to, but I sort of threw him out of the house and I don’t really know what happened to him and I really hope he wasn’t someone important—

 

Voldemort has to stop him there, because the fairy is halfway to hyperventilating. He reaches out to gently touch the boy’s arm, effectively startling him into silence. 

 

“Harry, it’s fine.” He reassures, to the fairy’s visible relief. “I think you handled everything excellently, and I can’t thank you enough for your assistance while I was indisposed.”

 

“Oh no, it was nothing, really,” Harry insists, quickly, blushing at the praise. 

 

“You’re right— most of that can be rescheduled for a later date without consequence. As for the wizard who came to see me; was he blonde, by any chance?”

 

Harry nods.

 

“Carrying a cane?”

 

Harry nods again.

 

“Ah, that was Lucius, then. Don’t worry terribly about him, he needed to learn that lesson one way or another.”

 

Harry does not look particularly encouraged by that, but he nods along all the same. Voldemort finds his eyes drifting back to the table behind him, to an almost innocent, nondescript glass-green bottle resting on its surface. It’s small, but still sizably larger than the vial he has in his office. And it was fresh, and all the more potent because of it. He’s still befuddled by its existence, even though he knows there’s only one way it could have gotten here. 

 

It just leads his thoughts in the same direction they’ve been going a lot these days; why?

 

Why would the fairy do all this for him? He somehow managed to save his alliance with the vampires, and he lied for him in front of Marion, and now he’s been running around putting out fires at Voldemort’s behest while he was indisposed, and even extracted his own propolis to cure him. He’d told Marion he wasn’t being kept here against his will, that he had access to his near unlimited reserves of magic. He’d mentioned something about a collar… the collar he’d had on when Voldemort bought him, he realizes. It had actually served a purpose aside from degrading the boy further. And to think, he’d so blindly just tossed it out. 

 

The collar made perfect sense. Creatures of immense magical power like the fae or the veela have to be kept restrained at all times when kept in captivity, some to greater extent than others. He remembers Harry had also been drugged as well, to the point he was most likely not even aware of his surroundings. And that was to say nothing of the potion that was constantly inducing his heats… at any rate, all of those made sense.

 

What Voldemort couldn’t wrap his head around, was why in Merlin’s name the fairy was even still here.

 

He could have escaped… this  _ whole time.  _ There was no reason to stay. So why didn’t he just leave?

 

The Dark Lord realizes there is no way he’ll ever understand unless he asks. He searches the boy’s gaze, but the fairy’s eyes are still fixed on his knees, where he’s fiddling with the hem of his robes. It’s the robes he gave the boy, he notices with some disbelief. As he had expected, they look positively enchanting on him, silvery embroidery only highlighting his pearlescent skin and glowing complexion, soft shadows of lavender complimenting his dark curls. He reaches for the boy, slow enough for Harry to move out of the way if he so chooses. He doesn’t, though, and Voldemort carefully tilts his chin up to look into his eyes. As always, they are so captivating he has to believe there is some kind of bewitching magic hidden in their depths. 

 

“Why are you doing all this, Harry?” He murmurs, leaning close. “You could have left at any time; why did you stay?”

 

Harry swallows with difficulty, nibbling at his bottom lip. It’s so hard to meet the man’s bright crimson gaze, he has to avert his eyes. 

 

He takes a shaky breath. “At first… I just didn’t know what else to do. I had no home to go back to, my mother was dead… And, well, everything was so nice it seemed a bit silly to leave. If I ran away I would eventually end up being caught again one way or another, so why even try?”

 

Voldemort nods. That sounds perfectly logical, and impressively pragmatic. Not that he would have expected anything less from the boy. For Harry to have survived this long being hunted as he had, he needed to be quick and clever and most importantly, realistic. 

 

“So you’ve stayed because there’s nowhere better to go.” He surmises.

 

Harry bites further into his lip, perhaps even hard enough to draw blood. Voldemort has to very consciously look away, lest he claim those lips for his own. 

 

“Well, at first. But then, well…” Harry trails off, thoughtful. “I don’t  _ dislike  _ it here, not at all. The elves are very dear to me, and I have all the books and clothes and luxuries I could possibly ask for, and… and…”

 

“And?” Voldemort echoes, raising a brow. 

 

Harry appears to have stopped breathing, and his face is flushed a brilliant crimson. “And I don’t dislike you either.” He manages to squeak out, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. “I— I mean, I don’t… When you… It’s not like it  _ hurts  _ or anything, and it’s not for very long…”

 

Harry’s eyes are squeezed shut, as he blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. Voldemort is actually rendered speechless. 

 

“And I understand  _ why.  _ I mean, I get that you have your reasons for wanting propolis, and if it helps you to continue your work then I don’t mind giving it to you.” Harry adds, after a beat, looking up at him earnestly. “I meant what I said to Marion— I want to see a world of equality, and I want to help you in any way I can.”

 

The Dark Lord’s eyes soften. It’s a good thing there’s no one in the room to see it, for it is a soft and tender look that is for Harry, and Harry alone, to see. Harry is so surprised to see it his breath stutters to a halt and his heart seems to flip over in a funny way. He doesn’t understand why the man’s expression effects him so, but it’s not exactly an unpleasant feeling. 

 

“I understand,” the man says, gently. 

 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He wraps his arms around the boy and pulls him closer, finally holding the boy in his arms. Harry stiffens for a moment, before he tentatively wraps his arms around the man’s broad shoulders, wondering when the last time he’d been held like this was. Probably by his mother. He feels a pang of loss at that, and leans a bit into the man’s warmth. It feels nice, to be held like this. It makes him feel a little less alone. 

 

“Thank you,” the human murmurs into his head, so quiet even Harry’s exceptional ears have a hard time picking it up.

 

He nods against the man’s neck, gripping him tighter. 

 

&&

 

He vows— for both of them— to not miss their ‘appointments’ again. All of this could have been avoided had he just kept with the schedule he’d made for them. Of course the reality of it all wasn’t that simple, and while it might seem silly now at the time it had been an extremely difficult choice to make. He just couldn’t live with himself knowingly abusing the boy as he was. The choice to abstain from him had seemed obvious.

 

But now, understanding the fairy as he does, he sees that’s not the case.

 

If anything, he had only made it more difficult for the boy. After all, it was Harry who had effectively saved the day when he had been indisposed. His help had been invaluable. Harry understands what Voldemort’s asking of him, and has even agreed to do it. 

 

It makes sense, now that the boy has explained himself.

 

He recognizes the value in the Dark Lord’s administration and what it’s doing not only for his fate but the fate of all magical creatures in Britain and beyond. He also recognizes that Voldemort has a reason for needing propolis as he does. So it makes sense that Harry would want to help him in this way. Harry is being perfectly logical— not to mention exceptionally helpful, when he could have made this much more difficult for both of them. 

 

He understands the rationale— so why does it still not sit well with him?

 

This is more than he could have ever dreamed of.

 

Not only does he have a fae, he has a fae who has expressed a willingness to remain by his side. He’s not keeping Harry here against his will, he’s not holding him captive, beating and starving him and just  _ using  _ him as a fresh source of nectar. Harry has even admitted to being content here, in the Dark Lord’s manor. He’s not unhappy in the least. 

 

He even smiles, from time to time. He laughs, he spends long hours tending to the garden and enjoys the company of the elves. He even seems to enjoy Voldemort’s company, to an extent. He worries for him, at the very least. But that was probably more out of concern for Voldemort as a vehicle of change for Britain, not for Voldemort as a person. 

 

Still, it is a situation far better than he could have ever hoped. What more could he possibly ask for?

 

He’s a hair early when he arrives at the fairy’s rooms.

 

He hovers by the open doorway, hesitant to disturb the scene he walks in on. 

 

Harry is seated at the round table by the windows, books spread out around him. He’s scribbling studiously into a leather bound notebook, brow furrowed in concentration. Voldemort doesn’t actually know how Harry entertains himself in the library; he’d given the boy free reign to them, and left it at that. His house elves reported that Harry made good use of the place, but he’d never asked them what it was in particular that Harry was researching. 

 

He draws nearer to get a better look. 

 

It appears to be… horticulture, of some kind? 

 

“Is this for the garden?” He asks quietly, startling the fae into almost dropping his quill.

 

Harry takes a deep, stuttering breath. “Err— yes. It’s not in season until early fall, but it’s invaluable for organ regeneration.” 

 

The answer surprises him. “Organ regeneration?” He repeats, brow raising. “Are you planning on regrowing any organs soon?”

 

Harry spares him an amused smile. It’s not a look any human is worthy of receiving. “No, of course not.” Harry returns, dimples out in full. “But it’s still very useful to have on hand. Not to mention, you certainly have the room for it…”

 

The fairy turns to stare out the darkened window, features contemplative. “When you said I could do what I wanted with the garden, what did you mean by that?”

 

Voldemort blinks. “I meant you could do whatever you like with it, in whatever capacity you saw fit. If that means uprooting the entire thing, then by all means have at it.”

 

Harry makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s not that…”

 

He tilts his head. “What is it, then?”

 

The boy looks down, verdant eyes hidden by a curtain of long lashes. “So if I wanted, say, a fountain or two, or a bird bath— you would be okay with that?”

 

He truly seems worried, Voldemort realizes. These were such small and trivial matters as far as he was concerned, but after another moment of thought he can see why Harry would be hesitant to ask. For a boy who had grown up with nothing, it must seem excessive indeed. As he too had once been a boy who had also grown up with nothing, he could understand. 

 

“Harry,” he starts, gently. “You could put a waterfall in there for all I care. I  _ want  _ you to do what you want with it. In fact, I expect you to turn it into something spectacular.”

 

Harry’s head shoots up at that, as he blinks up at Voldemort with wide, startled eyes. “H— Huh?”

 

Voldemort can’t help but grin at his expression. “I’m holding you to that, now.” 

 

“What, hold on! I didn’t agree to that!” Harry stands to his feet, indignant. His disgruntlement fades away when he sees the smile on the human’s face and realizes he’s just joking with him. “That’s not funny, Tom!” 

 

“Who said anything about being funny?” The man quips, expression perfectly serious. 

 

Harry just rolls his eyes at him.

 

After a beat, the irritation melts away, leaving a bare look of hesitation. “But it’s… it’s really okay?” He asks, reticent. 

 

“Yes of course Harry. Do whatever you like with it. The courtyard was nothing but an overgrown hovel before you came; it’ll be nice to restore it to its former glory.” 

 

Harry nods, a small, shy smile playing on his lips. 

 

The fairy looks at the clock then, blushing slightly. Voldemort looks as well. It’s a few minutes after eight. 

 

“Are you alright with this?” He asks, seriously. 

 

Harry bites his lip, nodding. “Yes.” He whispers, as he takes a few faltering steps towards the bed. 

 

He sits down on it, chewing on his lip. A little sliver of a pert, pink tongue comes out to lick at the raw and red flesh, swollen and supple as he rolls it between his teeth. Voldemort  _ really  _ has to stop getting distracted by that. Especially right now. 

 

The boy is obviously still quite nervous, despite his earlier bravado, so Voldemort is careful to go as slow as possible as he crawls onto the bed with him. 

 

He watches the boy intensely, looking for any signs of discomfort. Harry appears anxious, and bashful, but not in any kind of pain. He reaches for the bow holding the fairy’s robes together, giving it a light tug to pull it loose. The silky garment falls from his shoulders, leaving nothing but miles of pure, milky skin for his eyes to feast upon. It feels like ages since he’s last seen the boy like this, and he’s seized by such a surge of  _ want  _ he almost misses the wince on the boy’s face when he reaches for one of his legs.

 

“Harry?” He asks, alert.

 

Harry flushes. “It’s nothing!” He assures, perhaps a bit  _ too  _ quickly. 

 

Voldemort frowns down at him, dropping his hand from the boy’s leg. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he insists again, much quieter this time. He’s blushing to the tips of his ears. “Really. I just… I’m a bit sore.”

 

“Sore?” He repeats, confused. 

 

Harry nods helplessly, feeling as if he’s about to internally combust. 

 

“Sore from what?” He asks again, when Harry doesn’t reply. 

 

Then the answer comes to him on its own. “Oh.” Voldemort says, feeling incredibly slow.

 

Harry rubs absently at his leg, nibbling his lip again. “I’m not really used to using... _ that _ ,” he explains, voice low and shaky. “So I’m just a bit sore, still.”

 

Voldemort blinks, a frown beginning to form on his features. He’d actually completely forgotten about the magical siphon he’d offered the boy. It seemed like ages ago. But the boy must have used it when Voldemort had been unconscious; did that mean he was no longer adverse to using it?

 

“I see. Well, if you would prefer the siphon, I have no issue with—

 

“No!” Harry interrupts, with a vehemence that surprises him. It seems to surprise the fairy just as much. 

 

“No,” he repeats, softer. “I— I really don’t like using it. I would prefer not to have to ever again, too.”

 

Voldemort stares at him with vague bewilderment. 

 

It’s not as if he doesn’t understand the sentiment. He can understand that Harry most likely has difficult memories associated with such a device from his time in captivity, but all the same— to avoid it to such a degree that he would prefer  _ this?  _ He would have assumed that, even with the negative association, the boy would prefer the more impersonal and straightforward method. 

 

Voldemort’s skepticism must be apparent on his face, for Harry continues, blurting out, “And, and anyway, it’s a lot harder for me, to do it that way. It’s uncomfortable, and, I dunno, doesn’t come as easily I guess. It’s a lot easier when it feels good.” 

 

There’s a long pause where they both take stock of what he just said. Voldemort’s eyes widen. Harry squeezes his eyes shut. Oh Merlin. He just wants to melt into the floor and  _ die there.  _ Anything to put him out of his embarrassment. 

 

“You…” He reels, taken aback. “It feels good?”

 

Harry blushes as red as a tomato. He just wants this conversation to be  _ over.  _ “Of— Of course it feels good!” He returns, hotly. 

 

Voldemort looks confused. “Well how am I supposed to know? You’ve never said either way.”

 

Harry can’t believe this. Is the man truly so dense? “You think I just get wet like this for anyone?” He all but shouts.

 

Then he realizes what he said, and promptly buries his face in his hands. Merlin’s sweet balls of fire, did he really just say that  _ out loud _ ? He needs someone to sew his mouth shut. It’s as if all those months of not talking have made it so that it’s impossible for him to keep his mouth shut. 

 

For his part, Voldemort isn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.

 

From the fairy’s response though, he’s embarrassed enough for the both of them. And anyway, Voldemort doesn’t see why that’s anything to be embarrassed about. It’s perfectly normal, from a biological standpoint, and it will certainly make things easier for both of them if Harry enjoys it, at least a little bit. He certainly does. And it makes a fair bit of sense. Propolis is secreted as a sexual lubrication, as a direct result of arousal. 

 

“I see. I’m sorry I made you use that, then.” 

 

This was clearly not the response Harry had been expecting, for he peeks out at him between his fingers. 

 

“I know you’re not fond of the siphon, and apparently it causes you pain, too.” He’ll be sure to never put the fairy in a position like that again. 

 

“It’s alright,” Harry manages to say, valiantly shoving down his mortification. “It, um, it worked eventually…”

 

He wasn’t about to tell the man he’d spent a better part of an hour fruitlessly attempting to extract his own propolis to no avail, before finally his mind had started drifting off and suddenly he had been thinking about the man’s own fingers. It was only after he’d begun entertaining vague daydreams of the human and all the things he could do to Harry’s body that he’d finally managed to get aroused enough to start growing wet. And even then, it had taken some very vivid fantasies of the man and his talented fingers and tongue to get a viable enough amount. 

 

A flush rises up his neck with another swell of mortified embarrassment, but Harry powers through it; “But I would prefer not to have to do that again…”

 

Voldemort can’t help but find the sight positively adorable. “Right then. We should probably get on with it then, yes?”

 

“O— Oh. Um, yes. Right.” Harry agrees, flustered. 

 

He moves to push his robe out of the way, sitting in the center of the bed. He’s as shy as always, but he doesn’t resist when Voldemort settles him on his knees, making sure he’s comfortable and not in any danger of waking up with a back ache. 

 

He runs an absent hand up and down the boy’s leg, contemplative. “Harry,” he says, startling the boy. “You’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable, right?”

 

Harry is once again chewing on his lip as he nods. Merlin, one of these days he’s just going to completely lose control and replace the boy’s teeth with his own. For now though, he is adequately distracted with the prize in front of him, a sight he had tried to abstain from for so long… 

 

It had all been in vain, though. Perhaps he should have realized that he would never be able to stay away for long, not after knowing just what it feels like to have the fairy come undone beneath him.

 

He’s clearly been staring for too long, because Harry shifts uneasily beneath him, peeking back to look at him from beneath the fringe of his hair. He shakes himself out of his pleasant musings, hands coming up to rest on the boy’s hips. 

 

He thumbs carefully at the boy’s entrance, worried that it might be a bit painful since the boy had complained of soreness earlier. He’ll need to keep that in mind— he doesn’t want to hurt him or cause him any discomfort. To his surprise, when he presses lightly against the perfect pink hole he finds it already wet. He pulls slightly, just for a better look. He breathes sharply through his nose. Not just wet, but positively  _ dripping. _ It takes all his willpower not to do something he’ll come to regret later, turning his head away as he fights valiantly to regain his senses. 

 

Perhaps Voldemort had just always been rather obtuse on the matter, but he’d always thought that the reason Harry produced so much propolis for him was merely because he’d stopped the boy’s potion and let it come naturally. But it appeared the exact opposite should have been the case. Without a heat-inducing potion, it should have been near impossible to extract any propolis at all. Unless, of course, the fae happened to be comfortable enough with his presence that stress or anxiety wouldn't hinder his arousal… 

 

And now, to realize that Harry was this wet entirely because of him, to think that he would be so aroused because of Voldemort, that all this nectar was for  _ him _ ; it’s enough to push him over the edge.

 

Harry is wet because of  _ him _ , and it wouldn’t do to waste it. 

 

He wonders if the boy actually tastes any different, or if it’s all just in his head. All the same, the sweetness is heady and addicting on his tongue and he doesn’t think he could pull away if he tried. The possessive thrill that runs through him when he’s reminded that Harry’s arousal is entirely due to him threatens to undo him completely. It makes him far more insatiable than usual, knowing all of this is for him. He’s not sure how long he stays there, licking and stabbing and sucking at the boy until he’s a sobbing mess, but it seems both too long and not long enough.

 

He has to pull away eventually though, out of breath and aroused beyond belief. He’s so hard it’s agonizingly painful, and he’d like nothing more than to take himself in his hand just to relieve some of the pressure, but he refuses to cross that line. (As much as he might want to.)

 

He leans down for another taste, this time feeling a bit more in control of himself. It’s still a difficult task to restrain his more darker desires, what with temptation currently at its highest, but at this point he’s well used to having to deny himself. It’s more than worth it, anyway. This is more than enough. Just having Harry here beneath him, opening up so beautifully for him, hearing his little breathless gasps, he doesn’t need anything else. 

 

_ He  _ doesn’t need anything else, but apparently the same cannot be said for Harry.

 

The fairy gives a high, plaintive whine, so loud it’s enough to stop him in his tracks. He pulls away, frowning in concern. “Harry?”

 

Harry doesn’t respond at first, breath erratic and labored. He’s trembling, Voldemort realizes suddenly. Almost uncontrollably so. It’s enough for his concern to grow into full blown worry. 

 

He looks at the clock. It’s already been ten minutes. He sits up straighter, moving to pull away and perhaps get the boy a glass of water, when Harry’s voice stops him. 

 

“No, wait,” Harry pants breathlessly. “Please don’t stop…” 

 

When Voldemort looks at him, he’s clutching frantically at a pillow, cheeks burning. He’s not entirely sure who the boy is trying to fool here— he looks halfway to falling apart.

 

“Harry,” he begins, gently. He doesn’t want the boy to think he has to force himself. 

 

Harry just shakes his head. “Please,” he whines. “I don’t know— I feel… I feel funny.”

 

That immediately worries him. “Funny how?” Does he feel faint at all? Light headed? It’s not outside the realm of possibility. Maybe he should have let the boy rest for a few days, since he’d drank already yesterday…

 

“I don’t know,” Harry turns his face into the pillow, clutching it tighter. “Just… weird. I feel hot all over and, and I don’t know. I just don’t want you to stop.”

 

It dawns on him then, what’s going on here. 

 

He thinks of Harry as a normal fifteen year-old boy, completely forgetting how, exactly, Harry has lived those fifteen years. His life hasn’t been normal in the least. Voldemort was already quite familiar with most sexual acts by Harry’s age, if not by personal experience than at least by filthy boy’s dorm room talk. At the very least, he knew what an orgasm was and knew how it usually came about. Perhaps Harry knew too, academically, but it was clear he’d never actually experienced it. 

 

“I see,” Voldemort smiles slowly. “Don’t worry Harry, I’ll take care of you.” 

 

Harry nods, whimpering quietly. He leans down to place a reassuring kiss to the small of the boy’s back. 

 

He wastes no time in diving back into the boy, laving his tongue against the boy’s entrance, just to hear him cry out. He stabs his tongue deep into him, savoring the sweetness that all but melts in his mouth. No vial of black market propolis could ever compare to this. He thinks he could continue on like this forever, just tasting the boy over and over again, but he promised to take care of him and he doesn’t want to leave Harry hanging for too long. 

 

For one brief, perfectly terrible moment he debates pulling his own trousers down and using his cock to satisfy the boy, before he has to consciously shove the thought away. That’s not what Harry wants, not at all. 

 

So instead he suckles lightly on the boy’s wet entrance, before softly prodding at him with his fingers. Harry’s breath hitches, but his body opens up wonderfully for the invading digit. After a few gentle thrusts, he deems the boy stretched enough to handle another. Harry’s breathy gasps have turned into long, whimpering moans as he rubs his fingers inside the boy, looking for the spot that will send him over the edge. He knows he’s found it when Harry’s back goes taut, and he cries out in surprise. 

 

Voldemort can only watch with wide, hungry eyes as Harry comes violently on his fingers, a surge of wetness all but leaking around his fingers. There’s no controlling his overwhelming tidal wave of desire, he has to lean down and lick all of the boy’s essence before it can go to waste. Afterwards, once he’s sure Harry has ridden out the last waves of his first orgasm, he pulls his fingers out as slowly as possible. They are coated thickly in the boy’s sweet juices, and he makes sure to thoroughly clean them as well. 

 

It seems like an eternity before he can reign in his own lust enough to wrench his mind away from his own aching desires, and attend to Harry. 

 

The boy seems to have exhausted himself; his eyes have slipped shut and his grip around his pillow has loosened. His breathing is slowly calming from it’s erratic pace, as his body seems to grow limp in Voldemort’s hold. He settles the boy on the bed, worried he might have been too hard on the boy. His breathing is heavy and even though, and he doesn’t seem to be in any kind of pain.

 

He wonders if he should just leave the boy to his rest, before ultimately thinking better of it. It seems rude to just leave him here, thoroughly used and utterly exhausted.

 

He cleans the boy up with a quick cleaning charm, before trying to wrestle his robe back onto him. It’s a bit of a lost cause though, so he gives it up and instead just tucks the boy underneath the covers. 

 

He hesitates for a long moment, debating whether to leave or not. 

 

On the one hand, he has an urgent need to return to his rooms and relieve himself in the privacy of his own bathroom. But on the other hand, it seems so cold and callous to just leave the boy here like this. The idea of Harry waking up later in the evening, only to find that the bed has gone cold and he was all alone…

 

Mind made up, he unbuttons his shirt and transfigures his trousers into sleep pants. It does nothing to alleviate the straining ache between his legs, but at the very least it’s more comfortable. 

 

It takes him some time to fall asleep, as he merely watches the boy beside him in the quiet of the night. Harry’s breath has slowed into long, even breaths, denoting a deep slumber. He feels as if he could lie here forever and just observe the boy, lined in moon spill, ethereal and effervescent and far too beautiful for this world. How could one creature be so maddeningly perfect? And how could such a perfect creature want to stay here, with him? 

 

Perhaps he’ll never understand, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and joins the fairy in dreams. 

 

&&

 

Harry wakes up feeling relaxed and satiated. He stretches luxuriously, all but purring as he bathes in the morning sun. Oh, he feels wonderful. 

 

As he surfaces from his dreams, he realizes there’s a reason for that.

 

A high flush rises to his cheeks when he recalls last night. He’s still mortified with himself, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. 

 

He also feels unbelievably stupid. How could he not have recognized what he was feeling as an impending orgasm? It’s not as if he didn’t know what that was! But in the moment, feeling flushed and overwhelmed and like he  _ just couldn’t handle it anymore,  _ he had no idea what was going on with him, he just wanted Tom to keep going. He didn’t know what he wanted Tom to keep going  _ to…  _ or did he? 

 

Harry blushes even further, covering his face with the blanket. 

 

It’s not as if his mother had never given him this talk before. He knew all about sex… well, he knew all about sex from a theoretical and academic perspective. He was a fae, and so his biology was going to be very, very different from other species. He wouldn’t be able to just pick up a book and figure out what was going on with his body. His mother had known that, so just like she had with all general fae knowledge she had made very sure to tell him everything he needed to know. In all honesty he’d probably been a bit  _ too  _ young when she’d sat him down for this particular talk, but it had been after a close call with a team of poachers and his mother had worried she might not get another chance to tell him. 

 

So Harry knew a lot about sex, and his own reproductive biology, but he’d never actually experienced anything of the sort himself until he’d met Tom.

 

He had to admit the reality of it was much more stimulating than the theory.

 

Harry blinks up into the ceiling. 

 

He had… he had enjoyed last night. 

 

He hadn’t necessarily  _ disliked  _ all the other times, but he hadn’t actively enjoyed it either. Not like last night. Last night he’d chased the hot, heady feeling that always grew in his belly whenever the Dark Lord did that to him, and he’d ended up falling over the cliff of pure ecstasy. And he can’t say he regretted it. Not at all, actually. 

 

He moves to stretch again— and smacks his hand against something hard.

 

He near bolts upright in surprise. It’s a nose. And the owner of the nose groans loudly in response, brow furrowed.

 

“Sorry!” Harry gasps in surprise. “You— I didn’t see you there.”

 

The Dark Lord gives a grumble in response. Harry is charmed to find that, despite his insanely early start to the work day, the man is not actually a morning person. 

 

He sinks back beneath the covers, recovering from his shock. “Are you okay?” He asks, worried. Hopefully he hadn’t hit him too hard…

 

The man gives a vague groan in response. Harry watches with a fond smile as the human rubs at his eyes, blinking rapidly as he gains consciousness. It’s strange, Harry thinks, how quickly someone can mean so much to you. He remembers when he thought this man a curious creature, by human standards, but still nothing more than a wizard that was using him. And now he’s come to realize how much more the man really is. 

 

He almost wants to reach out and touch him, something about the lazy morning light making everything seem so slow and easy. He’s not wearing a shirt, Harry notices with a blush. And on that note, neither is Harry. In fact, Harry isn’t actually wearing  _ anything,  _ but after he passed out last night that’s no real surprise. 

 

Once he’s mostly awake, he turns to Harry. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He turns around.

 

Harry blinks. “Huh?” 

 

“How are you feeling?” And then, to clarify; “After last night.” 

 

Harry blushes a bit, but smiles widely nonetheless.  “I wouldn’t mind doing that more than once a week,” he enthuses. “Maybe even every day.”

 

Voldemort is startled into a laugh. That was absolutely  _ not  _ the response he had been expecting. Then again, he  _ had  _ given the boy a pretty spectacular first orgasm. “ _ Every  _ day? You might be okay with that, but I don’t think I could handle it.”

 

Harry buries his face into his pillow to hide his growing smile. Yes, he supposes it may get a bit tiring, to do that so often. 

 

“Maybe not that then,” he agrees after a beat. “But maybe…”

 

He trails off, biting his lip. 

 

Maybe not the sex then, but it would be nice to wake up like this every day. It was such a reassuring thing, to wake up with someone next to you. There was something so soothing about it, the morning slow and sleepy around them, a soft and affectionate light warming the bed in a golden glow. He hasn't felt this comfortable and content in a long time - maybe not ever. He never realized how much just having someone nearby at the start of the day could do to make him feel less alone. But he knows it’s just a fanciful dream. Voldemort is too busy to do this every day. He’s usually already at the Ministry by the time Harry even opens his eyes. It’s silly.

 

Voldemort frowns when Harry doesn’t finish his sentence. “Maybe what?” He prods.

 

Harry just shakes his head. His merry expression has gone wistful. “No, it’s nothing.” 

 

Voldemort rolls over at that, turning to face him fully. “It’s not nothing,” he denies. “You wouldn’t make that expression over nothing.”

 

Harry has to wonder when the man had become so proficient in reading his expressions. Either way he’s right. 

 

“I dunno. I guess I was just thinking how… nice this is.”

 

“Nice?” Voldemort repeats, not following.

 

Harry shrugs, bashful. “You know, waking up like this…” He blushes deeply, chancing a glance at the man. Voldemort’s expression is impossible to read; it looks almost cold, actually. Worryingly impassive. 

 

Whatever happy warmth the morning had diffused within him dies a still death at that. 

 

“Nevermind.” Harry is quick to say, hiding his disappointment. “I didn’t mean it—

 

“You would be okay with that?” Voldemort cuts him off, frowning.

 

Harry pauses. “Well, um, yes?” Then he adds, hastily; “I just thought, you know, it would make things easier, right? If we were together…  at least that way you wouldn’t have to come all the way to my rooms all the time.”

 

“Easier.” He echoes.

 

Harry nods rapidly. “Yeah. Easier. You know… from a logistical perspective.” Yes, that’s exactly what he had meant when he had suggested it. It was nothing but logical efficiency. 

 

The man’s features are impossible to read. “I see.” His tone is just as indiscernible.  

 

It occurs to the fae then that the human might not be as… enthused with all of this as he is. He might seem to at least be fond of Harry, but at the end of the day Harry was nothing more than a fresh source of propolis. 

 

“It was a silly idea,” Harry is quick to say, as he rolls out of the bed. “Forget I said it; what we have now works fine enough.” 

 

He shifts his legs to plant his feet on the floor and is so surprised by the soreness between his legs that his knees buckle under him. 

 

_ “Harry!”  _ Tom is up and out of the bed in seconds.

 

“I’m okay,” Harry insists, blushing furiously as the man helps him up. “I just… I was just surprised.”

 

Tom gives him an exasperated look. “This is why I asked you if you were alright.”

 

“I’m fine, really.” Harry assures with a shaky smile. “Just a bit sore.”

 

It wasn’t particularly painful, or even  _ bad,  _ persay— just startling. His cheeks grow even hotter when he thinks about just  _ why  _ he’s so sore.  _ And those were just his fingers,  _ Harry thinks, mortified. He has to squeeze his eyes as he unwillingly remembers some of the fantasies he’d come up with when he’d been trying to use the siphon. If he could barely handle the man’s fingers, how was he ever going to be able to handle  _ that _ ?

 

He shakes his head. He wouldn’t. That was never going to happen. There was no reason Tom would ever have to do that to him… he was just after Harry’s propolis, after all. 

 

Tom watches him with concern. “I’ll grab you a pepper up potion.” He insists, looking skeptical.

 

Harry doesn’t bother to fight him on it, reaching for the robe hanging on the bedpost and shakily tying it around himself. 

 

The fairy nods. “Okay. I’m just… going to go shower.” 

 

Tom watches him retreat into the bathroom with no small amount of bewilderment and a great deal of worry.

 

Waking up this morning had been… wonderful. He wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, but the mood had taken a spectacular swan dive and he couldn’t figure out why. Was it something he said? He runs a weary hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh. He knows they’re in a better place than where they had started, but wherever they were also felt a lot like wandering in a deep forest with no clear way out; sometimes he thinks he’s making progress, and other times he’s fairly sure he’s backtracked right to the beginning. 

 

He wonders if there’s even any use in trying to figure it out. 

 

He snaps his fingers, surprised to find it’s not Dusty who answers his call. She’s somehow become his appointed personal elf, so it’s rather curious to see a different house elf looking up at him expectantly. More than expectantly. He is positively  _ beaming.  _ Tom doesn’t know what to make of it. 

 

“Hello,” he says, watching the elf’s adoring smile with skepticism. “Could you grab me a pepper potion?”

 

The elf nods vigorously. “Yes! Yes of course! Mop will get it for you now.”

 

Ah, Mop, that’s right. He has a hard time remembering their names; they change them so often these days, it’s easier to tell them apart by their preferred color in clothing. Mop returns almost immediately with the potion, looking far too pleased to run such a simple errand. Tom really doesn’t understand house elves. 

 

“Thank you, Mop.” He says, cautiously, hoping the thing doesn’t burst into tears.

 

He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. “Is there anything else Mop can do for Master and Young Master Harry?” He asks with big, pleading eyes.

 

Tom actually feels bad enough that he tries to think up something. “Sure, yes. Harry is in the shower right now, but when he’s done I imagine he’ll want breakfast.”

 

Mop looks very serious and solemn. “Mop will tell the kitchen elves to make all of the Young Master’s favorites.” His look turns dreamy again. “It is a special day, after all!”

 

“It is?” Tom raises an incredulous brow.

 

Mop gets all shifty, mutters something under his breath that Tom thinks sounds a lot like ‘babies’, and then quickly pops away. The man blinks for a few moments, wondering what exactly just happened. Then he dismisses it as yet another one of the house elves’ weird quirks. They had a lot of those. 

 

He gives one last look towards the shut bathroom door, one that is suspiciously full of something that feels a lot like longing, before he leaves the fairy’s rooms to ready for the day.

 

&&

 

Harry is really starting to wonder what was wrong with him.

 

He’s never felt like this before. He is in equal turns both sad and listless and all but manic and possessed and beseiged with the desperate need to do something. Some days he wants to lie underneath the covers in his bed until the sun goes down, and other days he spends the daylight hours zealously rebuilding the garden. He’s really going to make Tom regret his words from earlier. He’s going to turn this place into a wonderland of exotic flowers and animals of all kinds. He’s even going to build a waterfall. Just a small one, though. And perhaps an aqueduct system of some kind to adequately distribute water throughout the flowerbeds. If he wants to attract pixies and caladrius and vermillion birds, he’s going to have to have quite a bit of free flowing water as well as still ponds. 

 

If he’s not sketching out his plan of attack for the manor grounds, he’s indoors either writing in this apothecary notebook or one of his many other leatherbound journals he’s dedicated to elven culture. Originally he wanted to leave it as some sort of tome to pass on to other generations of elven descendants, but halfway through he realized he had a tendency to write in both english and elvish, making a lot of it illegible to anyone who didn’t already know how to read elvish. Now he just uses them as ways to collect his thoughts and remember all the little anecdotes and instructions his mother used to tell him, all her little pearls of wisdom and the old elvish folk tales she used to tell him before bed— really, it’s just been a way to remember her and everything she taught him. 

 

So it’s not as if his days are filled with nothing but boredom. 

 

And these days, his nights really aren’t either.

 

Tom certainly doesn’t come everyday, but they’ve definitely started to do their little nightly ritual more than once a week. 

 

Harry doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

 

On the one hand, it always feels spectacular, and he always ends those encounters thoroughly satisfied. But on the other hand, he always feels so empty afterwards also. That moment once the passion has faded, and Harry realizes he’s cold and alone as he lies curled on the bed. He’s begun to loathe it, but he can’t find it in him to ask Tom to stay. He doesn’t know why Tom bothered that first time— it probably made him irreparably late to work, and Harry supposes it might not actually be comfortable for a lot of people to share a bed like that. Maybe humans were very protective of their personal space? All he knows is that Tom never stayed the night after that, even though Harry wishes he would.

 

It’s really not about the leaving, he thinks. 

 

It’s just yet another reminder of how  _ alone  _ Harry is.

 

He hates himself for even thinking that. 

 

Can’t he see how much he has, now?

 

He has a wonderful home and endless acres of land to turn into whatever daydreams his mind can conjure; he has access to the alchemy and potions labs, and the main library full of more books than Harry could possibly imagine. And he had his lovely house elf friends for company whenever he needed it. He should be satisfied with that. It’s more than he’s ever had, and he should know better than to ask for anything more. 

 

For some reason, despite his logical mind agreeing with this train of thought it’s been very difficult to get his traitorous heart to see it that way. 

 

Even though he sees Tom at night more than he ever has before, he’s beginning to notice that he doesn’t see the human during the day in the same frequency anymore. 

 

It used to be the opposite. It was more normal for Tom to ask him to have lunch or dinner, or even just ask to sit and watch him tend to the venomous tentacula, than it was to see Tom in his bedroom at night. He doesn’t know what changed, but it just seems like Tom is… pulling away from him, somehow.

 

_ He’s probably just re-establishing boundaries,  _ Harry thinks, sadly. It was inevitable though.

 

Harry was nothing but a precious creature and a fresh source of propolis to the man, it was silly to think he meant anything else. Anything  _ more.  _

 

Something cold drops on his hand, and the fairy realizes with alarm that he’s crying.

 

“Oh no,” he murmurs to himself, as he fiercely wipes the wetness away. If anyone sees him crying, he’ll never hear the end of it. The house elves will fret for weeks. 

 

_ It’s nothing,  _ he tells himself. This is nothing. This is fine. Everything is fine.  _ He’s  _ fine. 

 

He is. 

 

He has to be, because this is all he’s ever going to have. 

 

&&

 

The Dark Lord does not fret, or worry; he is always in complete control of his composure and never loses his repose no matter how dire the situation. Be that leading a revolution, running a government or facing down the (supposedly) greatest wizard of their time, he’s never lost control of himself. He had made the decision to forgo the use of horcruxes for precisely this reason; he did not ever want to lose control of himself. 

 

And yet these days, he worries quite a bit.

 

He will never regret meeting Harry, but all the same the young fairy tends to bring out a wellspring of foreign emotions that he’s never had to deal with before, all culminating into a continuous state of restless concern. 

 

Harry seems to be…  _ discontent,  _ as of late, and Voldemort is at a complete loss as to what to do. 

 

It’s so easy to see, and it pains him to see it. 

 

The boy will always muster a smile whenever the Dark Lord is near, but in moments where he is unaware his expression turns somber and maudlin. He has a few turncoat house elves that report on the ‘young master’ to him daily, and they all are saying the same thing. The young master has been quiet as of late, he doesn’t talk as much as he usually does, and he hasn’t been eating well. There’s a certain hopelessness to him now, a stark lack of cheer where there is normally an almost bubbly effervescence to the boy’s presence. 

 

As always whenever it comes to Harry, he is at a complete loss. 

 

He doesn’t understand what has changed, but he knows when it had happened. That fateful morning after he’d spent the night, when Harry’s breathtaking smile had crumpled into an expression of sorrow. Nothing has been the same since.

 

He’d thought if he just gave the boy some space, he might be able to save the situation. Maybe everything would go back to normal; he had probably just overstepped his boundaries, was all, and Harry was too shy to say so. He’s made a conscious effort to stop seeking the boy out during the day, giving him ample space to exist and be alone without the Dark Lord’s overbearing presence. He couldn’t bring himself to stop their nightly activities, though. Those, if anything, have only grown in recent weeks. 

 

He exits the Ministry, intent on getting some fresh air to hopefully clear his head. He is in perfect condition now, thanks to Harry, but all the same he’s finding it difficult to focus as of late, all of his thoughts eventually succumbing to the gravity of his concern. 

 

At any rate, a walk should do him some good. Normally he would have went home, intent on spending a few precious moments with his fairy, but since that’s not much of an option any more he’s taken to finding other ways of busying himself. 

 

He’s surprised to step out into a fine, breezy afternoon. The oppressive heat dominating London seems to have moved on, and it’s with no small amount of surprise that he realizes summer is almost over. It’s been almost four months since he’d purchased Harry. It seems like too short and yet too long a time to be real. 

 

He wanders aimlessly for a half hour, finding no closure for any of his thoughts. 

 

It’s as he’s returning to the Ministry that a voice stops him in his tracks. 

 

“My Lord!” He turns around to see a tall and elegant woman standing in the foyer of the Ministry’s floo.

 

Her voice is loud enough that a few people stop and turn. He would reprimand her for such insolence, but this is the cherished granddaughter of the Veela matriarch and a dear friend to the French Minister, so he decides it’s not worth the trouble. Not to mention, he’s sure she didn’t mean the disrespect— from her beaming smile, she is simply genuinely pleased to see him.

 

“I’m so happy I ran into you,” she begins breathlessly, as she walks over. “I thought for sure I’d have to bargain with your secretary for time on your calendar.”

 

He raises an amused brow. “Bargain? And just what sort of things do you and my secretary bargain over?”

 

She winks. “Trade secrets.” The she lets out a tinkling laugh, causing even more people to look this way— or rather, look  _ her  _ way. “At any rate, I’m positively delighted I managed to run into you. I really can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for my family and my people.”

 

“I thank you for the appreciation, but there’s truly no need— I consider it my duty to assist all creatures in any way I can.”

 

Marion smiles beatifically, shaking her head in wonder. “I see you are as charming as always, my Lord.” She demures, with a chuckle. “But it’s true, I can’t thank you enough. In fact, I have a gift for you, from my  _ grand-mere,  _ and much Ministry gossip to share.”

 

“Gossip?” He repeats, interested.

 

Her eyes twinkle. “Oh yes. Fabulous gossip, if I do say so myself.” She leans closer; a little too close into his personal space for him for him to be comfortable with. “Rumor has it that the Minister will be stepping down soon.” She adds, in a low whisper.

 

This does indeed pique his interest. “And, I’m assuming you have plenty of ideas as to who will take his place?”

 

“But of course,” she all but purrs. “Whoever holds the seat has to win my family’s favor, after all.”

 

So the Minister is retiring, is he? He and Tom are civil enough, but he wouldn’t consider them close allies. If he has the opportunity to take his pick of the up and coming politicians, he would leap at the chance to do so. Becoming close allies with France will be his foothold into the continent. The gleam in his crimson eyes is positively predatory as he looks down at her. The idea of losing himself in the nuanced art of political schemes is a welcome reprieve from the endless downward spiral he’s been thinking himself into over Harry. 

 

“This does sound like interesting gossip indeed. Perhaps we should discuss it over an early dinner?”

 

Her eyes light up. “Exactly what I was thinking.” 

 

&&

 

Harry looks up from his gardening, a smear of dirt streaked across one cheek, nightshade petals in his hair. He realizes he’s spent far too long than he had intended, ducked under the growing stems, pruning the gnarled nightshade roots. 

 

He debates returning to his rooms, before ultimately thinking better of it.

 

What does it matter, anyway? It’s not as if Tom will be there. 

 

The man has made himself scarce as of late. In the past few days he hasn’t seen hide nor tail of the man, and neither have any of the elves. He’s been putting in even longer hours than usual at the Ministry, and Harry is both concerned and exasperated. Are they really going to do this whole song and dance a second time? Surely the human has learned his lesson on overworking himself. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just that desperate to avoid Harry. If that’s truly the case, then Harry will simply have to remind him the error of his ways, the young fae thinks with annoyance. Still it’s only been a few days, and despite the recent frequency of the man’s visits they both know it isn’t entirely necessary for him to drink so often. Harry will give it a few more days before he confronts the man.

 

With more force than necessary, he begins his pruning again. 

 

His thoughts have turned full circle again, much to his irritation. As always, he starts the day with at first a certain fondness for the man; by noon his thoughts have turned maudlin and listless; then the concern and worry sets in; in the early evening he grows sad and visibly upset, as it becomes clear the human has no intention of visiting him during the day; and finally, when the human doesn’t even show up for their nightly activities, he becomes angry. It’s a cycle he’s grown tired of. He’s exhausted by all this emotional upheaval; he wishes he could just push all his emotions into an unused cupboard and leave them there in the dark where he won’t ever have to see or feel them again. He  _ especially  _ wishes he could do that with his feelings for the man in particular. They’ve done nothing but cause him unnecessary pain. 

 

He wishes he could go back to disliking the man. He thinks of his former ambivalence with longing; it was all so much easier that way. He was happier, that way. He had the entire place to himself, the company of the elves and the garden to roam around. And he hadn’t wanted for anything more. He was perfectly content with what he had. 

 

Now, though…

 

Harry sighs heavily, sitting upright. His back aches from all the time spent hunched over, and the spots in his vision remind him that he had skipped both dinner and lunch today. It hadn’t been entirely intentional, but at some point in the interim of waiting to see if the human would come to join him he had lost his appetite. 

 

He’ll worry the elves, at this rate, he thinks with another heavy sigh. Nevermind what the Dark Lord thought; Harry couldn’t give a damn about the man’s opinion. He probably didn’t have one anyway, as busy as he was. But the elves were his friends, and he hated the idea of worrying them. They had been so frightened when he had first taken ill all those months ago. 

 

Harry falls asleep with a restless unease, and awakes in the same weary state. He showers and dresses half-heartedly, and refuses to think about the Dark Lord at all.

 

He’s successful until about half past noon. Then it feels as if his world has been flipped upside down. 

 

He sits for lunch after much heckling by the elves, ultimately deciding they’re right to pull him out of his self imposed exile in the library. Blue gives him the saddest, most watery-eyed look he’s ever seen and he  _ knows  _ the other elves purposefully sent her and her imploring puppy-dog eyes to manipulate him into eating lunch since he had skipped breakfast. They’re right though, so he doesn’t call them out on it. Instead he just asks if Blue would keep him company for lunch. There must be something in his eyes when he says it, for she bursts into tears and assures him heartily that she will do her best to keep him company, and will have all the other elves do so as well. This is how Harry ends up eating lunch in the kitchens, a place the elves are always keen to shoo him out of. The young master of the house needn’t worry himself with the servants quarters, after all. 

 

At first, everything is going well. 

 

The elves are always wonderful company, and they are all obviously making a great effort to lift his spirits. Mop even sings him a song, and much to his delight the shy little Sudsy sits next to him and asks him to tell him an old elvish folktale. He spends most of lunch regaling his wide-eyed and enamored audience with the old stories his mother used to use to put him to sleep at night. They are a wholly captivated audience; some are even moved to tears at the reminder of their lost history. 

 

It’s one of the better days he’s had in a while, and he gets up from the table with a renewed sense of purpose; today he will finish writing his collection of elvish stories. He can’t let their oral history be lost to time. 

 

This is when he sees it.

 

He hadn’t seen the paper yet, skipping breakfast and missing out on his usual morning routine of reading the paper as he enjoyed the early sunshine out on the veranda. 

 

His stomach drops as he draws closer to get a better look at it. The front page is dominated with a photo of Tom, his arm around the waist of an absolutely stunning woman with silvery sheets of hair. He recognizes her as the veela from before— Marion. He had thought she was beautiful in person, but she’s just as beautiful on film. They look like a matched set, he can’t help but think, even as he feels numb all the way down to his toes. They are both exceptionally good looking people, of great social standing. The secondary headline calls them a perfect power couple. The main headline reveals their secret love affair. 

 

If it was really supposed to be a secret, Tom will be quite livid to see its front page news— is, unfathomably, his first thought. Then he shakes his head. What does he care about Tom’s feelings? 

 

At any rate, secret or no, everything makes a fair bit of sense. 

 

All those times he’d stayed out without any word to Harry or his elves, sometimes without even returning to his home at all; the way he hadn’t been surprised at all with her showing up at his manor at such a strange hour for polite company; the way he’d allowed her to yell at him without even a raised voice in response. If they were lovers, then this behavior made perfect sense. At the time, Harry had simply thought the man was very busy with work, and that he was just as unfailingly polite with her as he was with all creatures. 

 

He’d never felt so stupid and naive. 

 

“Young master?” Blue calls, worried. “Are you alright? You’ve grown very pale.”

 

“He doesn’t look well.” Dusty observes, frowning. 

 

“I’m fine,” he answers, faintly. “I just need to sit down, I think.”

 

Blue escorts him gently back into his chair. He stares, unseeing, at the cleared table in front of him. He can’t seem to get his thoughts to string together coherently. He’s just so… he feels so blindsided, and he hates himself for it. 

 

Tom doesn’t owe him anything, he reminds himself. He’s at perfect liberty to date whomever he likes. And why  _ wouldn’t  _ he like her? Harry knows the man is fond of all magical creatures, and this one just happens to be strikingly beautiful, highly intelligent, and a prominent political figure. It makes an awful lot of sense. What is Harry, in comparison? And why is he even bothering to compare himself to her at all? There’s nothing to compare. They’re not in a competition. She is the Dark Lord’s lover and he is… he’s just… he’s nothing but…

 

_ “Young master!”  _ Comes the horrified shout of many elves in unison, as burning hot tears race down his cheeks without his consent. 

 

He hastily reaches up to wipe them away, but the damage is already done. “I— I’m fine,” he insists, but his watery voice says otherwise. 

 

“He is most certainly  _ not  _ fine.” Dusty declares, bossily. “Blue, go get the vampire healer.”

 

Blue nods readily, popping out of existence before Harry can even think to call her back. 

 

“Foo, why are you just standing there? Go get the young master some water! And you, Mop, go get a calming draught from the Master’s potions stores.”

 

Harry hiccups loudly as he tries to rise from his seat. “No, it’s alright, I really don’t— 

 

“And you, young master, will not move from that chair!”

 

The elves have never raised their voice at him, and he is so stunned he just drops right back into his chair. Dusty looks chastised with herself, but doesn’t back down from her words. Her eyes do soften when she meets his eyes though, and Harry has to wonder how truly pathetic he looks to stir all the elves into such a frenzy. 

 

“Sudsy, go to Master and tell him— 

 

At this, Harry draws the line. “No.” He cuts her off, with a tone that he  _ never  _ uses with the elves. Dusty stares at him with wide eyes. 

 

“He doesn’t need to be disturbed right now.” Harry explains, throat choking up as he struggles to get the words out. “He’s probably… he’s probably very busy right now.” With his Veela lover, who according to the papers, will only be briefly stopping in town. He’ll probably want to make the most of his time with her, and Harry wouldn’t want to intrude on that. Or maybe they’re already on the coast? The papers speculate that they’ll continue their tryst over the weekend and take it to her family’s villa in Nice; taking a vacation like that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a workaholic like Tom would do, but then again, how is Harry to know? 

 

Dusty gives him an imploring look. “Young master,” she begins, gently, “if anything is wrong, Master will want to know— 

 

“Nothing’s— “ He stops mid sentence at the knowing look in her eyes. “The Healer is enough. If he says the Dark Lord needs to be contacted, then he will be. But for now, I don’t see much reason to worry him.” 

 

Dusty still looks disapproving, but sees the logic in his words. 

 

Harry sighs then, defeated, as he waits for Blue to return with Dvorak. 

 

He feels so silly, wasting the vampire’s time like this. There’s nothing wrong with him. Not physically, anyway. He’s just… he’s just being stupid. He’ll get over it. There’s absolutely nothing wrong, and he has nothing to be dissatisfied with. He’s satisfied. He  _ is.  _

 

Unfortunately, Dvorak sees right through that. 

 

“You’re iron levels are a bit low— have you been eating proper meals? I know it’s a bit more difficult for fae, what with not eating meat and all, but if you’re eating balanced meals there should be no issue.” Dvorak asks idly as he runs some tests, and then writes down a few notes on a piece of parchment. 

 

He looks up when Harry doesn’t answer. 

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry pulls his eyes away from the towering bookshelves lining the man’s study, looking a bit guilty. He’s worried about leaving the Dark Lord’s manor, but it’s not as if the man has any means to keep him there. Aside from the collar, that is. But he doesn’t think the man will try to put that on him, even if he does end up getting mad at Harry for leaving. Or at least, he hopes not. At any rate, despite his nervousness over leaving he’s thrilled with the vampire citadel. The halls are cavernous and made of dark stones, enormous enclosures without windows lined with gilded sconces on the wall. Somehow, Harry doesn’t find the mostly underground castle to be stifling or confining, even without any sunlight. Dvorak’s study is warm from the fire burning in the heath, and carpeted with plush Persian rugs that are apparently older than even Dvorak. His rooms are full of all sorts of fascinating, ancient artifacts that Harry would love to study further in depths. 

 

In an attempt to calm Harry’s nerves, the man had chatted idly over the many elves and fae he had met over the course of his life as he settled Harry in a chair in his study and went about retrieving all he’d need. He spoke of great elvish warriors he’d fought and then treated after the Crescent Moon Wars, the last elven-vampiric war before the two races signed the Moon Treaty of 600 BCE; he spoke of the last elvish Moon princess that eventually married the great vampire and leader of the Ottoman Empire, Suleiman the Magnificent, who eventually went on to create the clan that resides in this citadel today. Harry hadn’t realized how much shared history their two races had, and the tales were more than enough to distract him from his worries, at least for a little while. 

 

Now though, they had stopped the small talk and had settled on the true matter at hand, and Harry found his nerves returning. 

 

“I— I haven’t really been eating well.” He admits, eyes lowering. 

 

Dvorak frowns. “Why not?”

 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Just… haven’t had much of an appetite lately.” 

 

The vampire looks alarmed.

 

“I’m not sick or anything!” Harry hastens to say. “I feel fine, really. No aches or fevers or anything like that.”

 

If anything this only makes the vampire look even more alarmed. 

 

“I swear.” Harry adds, weakly.

 

“I believe you.” Dvorak nods, sitting down beside Harry on the ornate chaise that was apparently given to the vampire by an Algerian merchant sometime around the time of the Roman Empire. “But I am still concerned. How are you feeling, besides the lack of sickness? Have you been sleeping well?”

 

Harry bites his lip, then shakes his head. 

 

“What about your mood?” The vampire asks, gently. “The elves were very worried about you. They said you burst into tears.”

 

“That— I didn’t mean to.” Harry insists, but it sounds pathetic even to his ears. 

 

“I daresay no one  _ means  _ to cry. It’s a natural result of intense emotional distress.” The old healer replies. “It’s a symptom, not an ailment in and of itself. So perhaps what I should ask is; why were you crying?”

 

Harry lowers his eyes, shifting in his seat. The carpet is a full retelling of the mongols sacking the city of Baghdad during the reign of the Abbasid Caliphate. Across his vision Mongols on horses chase their elephant-riding Arab counterparts back and forth in spools of golden thread. It’s almost enough to distract him from the subject at hand. Almost. 

 

“I’ve just been a bit… maudlin lately. It’s really nothing.”

 

Again, Dvorak does not look convinced. His eyes narrow contemplatively. “Has Tom done something to upset you?”

 

Harry stills.

 

“He has, then.” At this, Dvorak begins to look murderous. “Has he forced you into doing something you didn’t want to?”

 

“Nothing like that.” Harry chokes out, blushing. “He hasn’t done anything I— err— didn’t want him to do.”

 

Dvorak still looks suspicious. 

 

“Actually, um… I can’t say I have very many complaints on that front, currently. He’s been very, ah,  _ attentive. _ ” If possible Harry blushes further. 

 

It doesn’t seem to embarrass the healer at all, but then again, he’s probably heard all of this a thousand times before. 

 

“Has he tried to initiate intercourse with you?”

 

Harry sputters, choking on thin air. He shakes his head rapidly. “No he hasn’t.” He scratches his cheek, looking back down at the carpet. “... Not that I think I would be, um, all that adverse to it, though.” He manages to squeak out. Oh Merlin. That was  _ not at all  _ what he meant to say. 

 

The vampire doesn’t even bat an eyelash though, settling back in his seat. “I see. So you mean to tell me he hasn’t done anything of a sexual manner without your consent, then?”

 

Harry nods, not willing to trust his voice right now. 

 

“Perhaps it has nothing to do with his actions. DId he say something to you?”

 

Harry shakes his head. 

 

“But he has upset you.” Dvorak confirms, mouth thinning.

 

Harry shrugs. “He… he didn’t  _ mean  _ to.” He says, in a small voice. “I don’t even think— well anyway, it’s not his fault. I’m just being silly.”

 

“I assure you, your emotional wellbeing is the farthest thing from silly.” Dvorak retorts, crisply. “You have already suffered enough, and I still have my reservations over your current situation. Truly, I wish I could get you to consider perhaps living here instead— 

 

“No,” Harry protests. “You don’t understand, he needs me—

 

“Yes, but do you need him?” Dvorak interrupts, levelly. 

 

Harry pauses. “Yes.” He answers, after a beat. “I think I do. I think… well. I mean, I care for him, I think. More than I thought.”

 

Dvorak waits patiently. Harry takes a deep breath. 

 

“I just— I don’t understand myself, lately.” Harry admits. “I should be fine. I want for nothing, and I have the elves to keep me company whenever I feel the need. It’s more than I’ve ever had my entire life and I should be satisfied with it. But… for some reason I’m not. I don’t understand. It’s not as if I’m  _ lonely.  _ Like I said the elves are my friends I enjoy spending time with them, but for some reason… I guess I miss him. I want him around, but he doesn’t seem to want to be around, so…”

 

“Tom, you mean.” Dvorak clarifies.

 

Harry nods, as he watches an archer by his left foot shoot arrows off the top of an elephant. “Yeah. I know he’s very busy, what with running the Ministry and all, and maybe he’s just busier than usual. But… we used to eat together, sometimes. And sometimes he would sit with me out in the garden, or in the library, and… it was nice. I miss it a lot.” Just saying it aloud makes his throat clam up, and he sniffles angrily at himself. He’s so pathetic. 

 

He puts his foot in front of the path of the archer. The elephant stops its march, and the archer looks up at him with an angry expression. Harry stares down at it listlessly. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Dvorak denies, shaking his head. “It’s perfectly reasonable. Harry, you are vastly underestimating the difficulties of your life experiences and are being far too hard on yourself. Tom isn’t really making anything easier, forcing you into all this.”

 

The vampire lets out a gusty sigh. “A few thousand years ago, you would have wanted for nothing, you know? You would be attending school, perhaps an apprentice to a Grand Vizier or maybe even a Grand Vizier yourself. You would have had plenty of suitors asking your mother for your hand, but you would have centuries still before you’d need to worry about such things. During the winters you and your family would vacation in Petra, or Bosra or Palmyra, when the weather is cooler in those regions and the wizard courts were in session. And when the weather turned warmer you would return to your ancestral home; for a highland fae such as yourself that would be either the Alps or perhaps even here, in the Carpathian mountains.”

 

“As the snow piles, you would return to the ice palaces of the snow elves. These places were impossible for regular humans to reach, perched high within treacherous mountain peaks in places where the temperature is too cold for even the hardiest of magical creatures to venture. You would fly there, of course. It’s inaccessible otherwise. You would be surrounded by your people and the rich history of your ancestors, never wanting for anything. Knowledge, power, love and riches would all be well within your reach.”

 

He shakes his head. “Of course, the world has changed a great deal since then. The fae are all but as instinct as the elves these days, and their mighty ice palaces are forever lost to time and history. You are one of the last of your kind, and have spent your entire life hunted for it. The life you have lived has not been easy, and so many things that rightfully should be yours have been taken from you, as they have from many creatures. A life of safety and comfort; friends, schooling, education and a place in society… You’ve had to go without all of this. Is it any surprise you find it difficult to cope?”

 

“It’s all I’ve ever known, though.” Harry replies, distantly. 

 

The healer looks older than he ever has before— old, and tired, and world-weary. “How I wish I could change things for you, my young fae.”

 

Harry purses his lips. “You can, though.  _ We  _ can. Tom can change it all, and we can help him do it.” Harry looks at the vampire with steady, calm eyes. “I’m aware he has his faults. He is cruel, but not needlessly so. He is ambitious and will do what he needs to do to see his goals to fruition. And yes, he is…  _ using  _ me to further those goals and ambitions. But as I said he has never intentionally meant to harm me, has never intentionally been cruel.”

 

“Yes, I know the sort of man he is. Ambitious, cunning… and absolutely enamored with magical creatures of all kinds. I cannot speak for him, but I’m sure that he cares for you deeply.” It looks as if it pains the vampire to say this. 

 

“I know.” Harry says, miserably. “He knew he would jeopardize his alliance with your clan— and all creatures— if he told you about me, and he did it anyway.”

 

“That surprised me, if I’m to be honest. He’s always been a man to cut his losses.” Dvorak muses. “But then, as I said, he cares for magical creatures, and he cares for you. It was a price he was willing to pay.”

 

Harry smiles despite himself. “Yeah, it was.” 

 

“I think… I think I like him.” Harry says then, quietly. “When I saw in the paper today that he was out with his Veela lover—

 

Dvorak snorts. “His  _ what _ ?”

 

“I just— I don’t know what came over me. I was so upset, I think I was in shock. But after being able to digest the news, I think what I’m feeling is… it isn’t jealousy. Longing, maybe. I wished I could have been her, in a way. And I wish he would have told me he was in a relationship. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if he had.” 

 

“I don’t think…” Dvorak pauses. “Are you sure he’s in a relationship with this woman?”

 

Harry shrugs. “She was the one who needed the Hargraven’s cure. And he seems partial to her.”

 

The vampire raises a brow. “More partial to her than he is to you?”

 

Harry frowns. “How is he partial to me?”

 

This draws a laugh out of the old vampire. “Harry, he is very fond of you. Far more than he is of this Veela woman, I would imagine. Perhaps it would be best to just ask him about it directly, don’t you think?”

 

Harry shakes his head. “No. That would be too…” He trails off. “I— I think I like him. Romantically, I mean. But he doesn’t feel the same. I’m just a very precious creature to him. Someone he’s fond of, that he has use for.”

 

“How can you know for sure if you won’t ask him?”

 

That’s a good point, that makes Harry’s mouth twist. “I can read the signs.”

 

“Oh, youth.” The vampire shakes his head, looking perhaps a bit nostalgic. “Harry, you can read as many signs are you like but you will never know for sure. Especially with a man like Tom. He’s a difficult person to read, and this is coming from someone who’s known him since he was a young man. I assure you, you will never know how he feels without asking him, because more than likely he doesn’t know himself.”

 

“I— I can’t just ask him.” Harry protests. “What if he… no way. I can’t. I don’t want to ruin what we have now by asking for more.”

 

“Who says you have to ruin anything?” The vampire challenges. “I really wish you didn’t hold such feelings for him, but I won’t tell you how to feel. If you want to have a romantic relationship, you should say so. There’s nothing wrong with asking for what you want.”

 

Harry shakes his head. In his experience, asking and wishing for things would never get him anywhere. It would only make him miserable and longing for things he couldn’t have.

 

But then… isn’t that what he’s doing already? Longing and wishing for things he couldn’t have? And if that was the case, what did he have to lose? 

 

He thinks it over, frowning down at the carpet again. The archer has forgotten all about the war going on all over the carpet, and is instead attempting to hack at Harry’s foot. 

 

He looks back up, conflicted. “You really think I should?” He asks, in small voice. 

 

“Well,” Dvorak begins, ominously. “Love and relationships, at your age. That’s really…” 

 

“I know what you’re going to say— I’m too young to understand what love even really is.” Harry cuts in with a small smile of amusement.

 

“Yes, well,” Dvorak sniffs. “You  _ are.  _ But as I said, a thousand years ago you would have had many suitors and while it wouldn’t have been prudent to take one you could have, and even at your age it wouldn’t have been seen as strange. Fae are immortal, so in all likelihood your mate could have been several centuries older than you. In light of this, I suppose your affections for the Dark Lord are not so strange. But all the same times have changed, and I do not like the way he has taken advantage of you like this.”

 

Harry just pulls a face. 

 

“That being said you are capable of making your own decisions, including in this. If you wish to pursue a relationship with him, I think you should do so. Too much has been taken from you to let what you want get away from you.”

 

Harry flushes, but doesn’t correct him. 

 

Anyway, he thinks the vampire is right. He’s not actually sure what he wants. But… he wants to know how Tom feels about him. And he wants Tom to know how he feels, too.

 

&&

 

When the Dark Lord finally storms the citadel a scant hour later, the man looks as if he had all but ran out in the middle of a meeting. He is dressed for work, with a stack of files still clutched in his hand as he exits the floo, slightly out of breath with a wild look in his eyes. 

 

Dvorak sets his copy of the Prophet down on the desk of his study, amused. So much for being holed up in some beachside chateau with his Veela lover in tow. The Prophet is always so hilariously wrong. Tom really ought to get around to changing the sort of slander these kinds of publications can get away with in the name of ‘gossip’. 

 

“How is he?” The man demands immediately, the moment he’s caught his breath. “Is he alright?”

 

“And how’s the young lady?” He can’t help but ask, grinning.

 

Tom rears back, clearly not expecting that. He blinks a few times, caught off guard. Then his eyes narrow in annoyance. 

 

“What young lady?” Tom asks, waspishly. 

 

He chortles. “Your Veela lover, of course.”

 

“My  _ what _ ?” 

 

“I assume you’ve yet to read the news.”

 

“I’ve been in meetings since before dawn.” Tom retorts, snappishly. “The Wizengamot is refusing to push legislation regarding the Giant colonies. Frankly I’m surprised I’ve managed not to  _ crucio  _ the lot of them for the nonsense they’ve put me through for the past twelve hours.”

 

“Twelve hours?” Dvorak repeats, curious.

 

“Yes. I have been reworking the bill with members of the House since the early evening. Fortunately we were able to make the necessary compromises and come to an agreement.”

 

“Ah,” he leans back in his chair. “So you  _ weren’t  _ taking a romantic vacation to the French Riviera with Madam Marion?” 

 

Tom rears back, incredulous. “Why in Merlin’s name would I do that?”

 

He shrugs. “According to the papers, you two are madly in love and are planning to elope in Monaco.”

 

Tom hisses. “That is absolutely absurd. I’ll have their hide for such nonsense.”

 

“It does make for a great headline.” Dvorak returns, sliding the paper his way. “And a pretty picture.”

 

Tom is near spitting fire as he scans the headline. And then he is really burning the thing up in flames, tossing it into the fire with a look of disgust. “This is nonsense.”

 

“Yes, I had assumed as much.” The vampire agrees coolly. “But don’t presume everyone will realize that. You should clear this up as quickly as possible.”

 

At this, the Dark Lord loses much of his anger, instead looking worn out and tired. “I had gone to great lengths to avoid this exact scenario.” He says, thinking of how he had instructed Lucius not to leave him alone with her during the duration of the French Veela emissaries stay on the Isles for this exact reason. He knew all sorts of rumors would be set ablaze if he was to even step away for a moment alone with her, and yet he’d entirely forgotten about that the other day when faced with the enticing prospect of a chance to pick the French Minister’s successor. It had been well worth it, he supposes, but all the same he is irritated by this turn of events. 

 

As it turns out, he might just regret those words. 

 

“I see. Well, its happened nonetheless, so perhaps you should explain yourself.”

 

The Dark Lord looks at him, nonplussed. “To who? You?” It’s not as if he cares what the masses think of him. Or at least, not in this regard. As long as he holds public favor for his legislation they are welcome to speculate all they like on his ‘romantic life’. 

 

“No of course not.” The vampires laughs. “I’m well aware that she— and her enter gender— aren’t exactly your ‘type’.”

 

The human’s expression turns annoyed. “Nevermind that. Where is Harry? What happened? The elves didn’t know of his condition; they could only tell me that they sent him to you.”

 

“Harry is fine. Under the impression you’re off with your Veela lover, but fine.” 

 

Tom looks perplexed. “Harry? Why in Merlin’s name would he believe that utter nonsense?”

 

“I imagine because he wouldn’t know what else to believe,” the vampire replies, calmly. 

 

This gives the man pause. Dvorak is right. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ Harry believe it? He knows the fae likes to read the news, and unfortunately such garbage like the Prophet is part of that. He would have thought it would be obvious to the boy that Tom was in no such relationship; he barely has time for  _ Harry,  _ the only person in the world he ever actually wants to spend time with. Where would he even have the time to go galavanting off to some beachside getaway? 

 

But then it occurs to him that he’s never discussed it with Harry. Harry doesn’t know much about him, in the same way Tom doesn’t know much about Harry. It seems so absurd, to think he knows basically nothing about a person that means so much to him.

 

The Dark Lord sighs. “I suppose I should clear this up with him, then. Is he here?”

 

“Yes, I left him in my study with a few elvish scrolls.” The vampire leans over his desk, tenting his hands. “He’ll be occupied with those for some time, I suspect, which is good because I’d like to discuss some things with you.”

 

This seems like it will take a while. Voldemort swallows another sigh, and makes an effort to tamper down his impatience. Dvorak says Harry is fine; he’ll just have to take the old vampire’s word for now. He knew he was already on thin ice with the healer, and he had no interest in making things worse. He pulls out the chair across the man’s desk, preparing for a lecture. 

 

“How is he, really?” Voldemort asks, seriously. “If he was truly fine, you wouldn’t have been called in, and you wouldn’t have kept him here.”

 

Dvorak pauses, looking as if he is debating how to answer. “Harry is fine, physically. He was just a bit anemic, and his blood pressure was a bit low. Nothing he can’t bounce back from.”

 

Voldemort frowns. That doesn’t sound too bad. “Is that all?”

 

When he’d gotten the message, it had sounded quite serious. 

 

“Well, I believe these symptoms to be physical manifestations of an underlying problem,” the vampire explains. “So while the symptoms themselves might be easily treatable, they will only grow worse with time if the actual cause is not addressed.”

 

Voldemort’’s frown deepens. “And what do you think is the actual cause?”

 

“I believe Harry is— “ Here he pauses again. “Depressed.”

 

It feels as if the floor has dropped from beneath him.

 

His lips thin into a fine, grim line. He’d expected this to happen, but at the same time he’d really thought… Harry had seemed to like it here. He’d even said so himself. And he seemed to be enjoying his complete upheaval of the outside courtyard and the surrounding gardens, and if he wasn’t doing that then he was always thoroughly preoccupied with his books. Still, Tom had always known this would happen eventually— it had only ever been a matter of time. Harry was bound to start feeling restless and trapped eventually, and even though he wasn’t tethered down here by magic, he would feel obligated to remain. 

 

The writing had been on the wall for some time now, he had just been desperately trying to pretend not to see it.

 

“I see.” The Dark Lord intones, gravely. 

 

Dvorak merely gives him an amused look over his glasses. “Do you?”

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He sighs. “He’s a fae. He’s not meant to be kept here like this.” The man runs an erratic hand through his hair— an anxious gesture Dvorak hasn’t seen since he was a mere young man fresh out of school. He exhales again, “I suppose this is the part where you tell me I need to set him free.”

 

“On the contrary,” the vampire retorts, coolly, “I think that might be the worst thing you could possibly do.”

 

The man’s head snaps up at that. “Excuse me?” He says, incredulously. 

 

Dvorak stares at him for a long moment. Tom feels like a young Hogwarts graduate all over again, stumbling into a citadel full of vampires armed to the teeth, lost and in over his head. He remembers this very look from this very vampire; it was after Tom had foolishly demanded an audience with the Vampire Lord after arriving at their stronghold. That hadn’t gone over well with the guards. The vampire healer had little sympathy as he’d patched him up after that— he’d called him an ‘obtuse idiot’ for not being able to have the foresight to have just a little bit of tact. 

 

At any rate, the healer had given him the same look then as he was now. 

 

This time though, Dvorak looked more amused than annoyed. “Are you truly this dim? It’s a wonder you’ve managed to get this far in life.” He marvels, sounding genuinely impressed.

 

If this was anyone else, Tom would have cursed them for such blatant disrespect. But to an ancient vampire healer like Dvorak, they were all just young and foolish idiots. 

 

All the same he doesn’t appreciate being mocked. “How exactly am I misreading this situation?”

 

“ _ How _ ?” Dvorak guffaws, startled into a laugh. “I don’t even know how to approach that question. You are clearly misreading  _ everything, _ and worse, you don’t even seem to realize it.”

 

Tom scowls. “If you’re just going to sit here and patronize me—

 

“I’m not patronizing you, I’m trying to help you.” Then he adds, under his breath, “Even though this is not in my job description.”

 

Then the vampire clears his throat. “Here; I will tell you exactly what to do, in explicit detail, and all you have to do is follow my instructions and this situation will resolve itself.”

 

Tom leans forward eagerly. “What do I need to do?”

 

The vampire looks beyond amused at his earnestness, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Right, well. My first instruction is to have the fairy eat three square meals a day. But the one stipulation— and this is important— is that you must be there with him.”

 

Tom’s brow furrows thoughtfully, but he nods along without remark. 

 

He supposes he can see the value in that. It would be better to monitor the boy’s intake personally than have his elves report back to him after his every bite. Not to mention, it would do wonders for his own abysmal track record for skipping meals. It would be an easy way to hold them both accountable to eating balanced meals three times a day. 

 

“The second is to make sure to spend at least a half hour a day doing some kind of extracurricular activity.”

 

The human leans back in his chair, blinking. “Extracurricular?” He repeats, confused.

 

Dvorak hums along. “Yes, yes. It doesn’t have to be anything impressive; a walk around the garden, reading books together. Hell, you could sit and stare at the stars the whole time, it doesn’t really matter what you do, as long as you’re doing it together.”

 

Tom supposes he could see the value in that as well. It would be a good opportunity to personally gauge the fairy’s mood. And it was true he hadn’t spent much time with the boy as of late— and look what happened. He must be more vigilant. 

 

“I understand.” He nods, solemnly.

 

Dvorak only continues to look amused. He has this twinkle in his eye as if he thinks Tom is being incredibly dim, and even if Tom doesn’t like it one bit he can at least accept that Dvorak’s advice has been pretty spot on thus far. 

 

“My third instruction is to hold at least one conversation with him, per day. Again, it doesn’t have to be anything difficult. A simple, ‘how was your day?’ will suffice.”

 

He tilts his head in intrigue, before nodding to that as well. Yes, that would certainly make it even easier to gain insight into Harry’s emotions. Harry tended to be rather straightforward when asked things directly, after all. 

 

“Now, here is my last piece of advice— and perhaps my most important.” The vampire gives him an austere look over his glasses. Tom meets his gaze with an earnest expression as he awaits the vampire’s last words of advice.

 

“Listen to what he says. Listen  _ carefully.  _ Listen to the things he  _ doesn’t  _ say. Harry is cautious by nature, so he has a tendency to retreat into his shell when he feels uncomfortable. When this happens, you must be gentle, but insistent; ask him what’s wrong. If he gives you a vague or noncommittal answer, ask him a bit more directly— ‘have I done something to upset you? Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? — things like that. There’s a good chance he still might not tell you, in which case the only thing you can do is be present with him. More than likely, that will be more than enough.”

 

Tom, who had been listening raptly throughout all of the man’s spiel, frowns at that last part. “Will be more than enough to what? Cure his depression?”

 

Dvorak looks like he wants to laugh. “Yes, something like that.” He agrees, amused. Tom has a feeling the vampire is pulling a joke on him of some kind, but for the life of him he’s not sure what it is. 

 

The Dark Lord narrows his eyes at the old healer. “If you are lying to me or misleading me in any way…”

 

This is what breaks the vampire’s restraint, and then he is laughing in earnest. The Dark Lord is impressed with his own restraint; he itches to cast a few dark curses at the impudent old vampire, but somehow manages to refrain. 

 

“I assure you I am not.” The vampire insists, still gasping for breath as he wipes tears from his eyes. “Honestly Tom I thought this would be fairly obvious— all you have to do is spend more time with him. That’s it. All I’ve done is given you a few easy guidelines on how to do so.”

 

Tom blinks. And then blinks again.

 

Finally, he leans back in his chair. 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

He does feel a tad obtuse. 

 

“That’s— that’s it?”

 

“Yes, that’s it.” Dvorak nods, still looking far too amused. At this point though, he does not even care. He is too busy smiling. 

 

“Very well then. I will be sure to follow your advice.” Voldemort says graciously, as he stands. 

 

“Good. Now as I said he’s in the study if you’d like to speak to him. And remember to clear up this whole Veela lover idiocy as well, would you?” Dvorak calls to him, as he walks to the door. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I did it again. Basically no porn and just an absolute dumpster fire hot mess of feelings *facepalms* next chapter. seriously next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING/TAGS: Human(creature) trafficking is at the premise of this story; mentions of slavery/systematic abuse/child abuse/non-con/dub-con in that regard. Also general non-con/dub-con between Harry/Voldemort. Voldemort is basically holding Harry captive to obtain immortality by sexually abusing him. Or he thinks he's holding him against his will, in reality Harry is choosing to endure it because he doesn't think he has any other better options, which should really be a trigger tag in and of itself but idk what I would call it. Stockholm syndrome? It's not really quite SS though. Also mentions of mass-genocide (but somewhat unintentional?) in regards to Harry's race, as they've become instinct due to being hunted down.


End file.
